Red Handed
by llnbooks
Summary: Young Blades story. Campy, AU take on how an inventor like Siroc came to join the Musketeers. Written in March 2005.
1. Chapter 1

_Author's Notes:_ There are some things you should know before you read this. 1) It was written & originally posted way back in early March 2005, in between the first broadcasts of episodes #3 and 5. Therefore, there are bound to be things in this story that were subsequently proven inaccurate. I expected that when I wrote it. You must therefore consider this story AU. 2) I was both in a hurry (since I was trying to finish 'The Switch' at the time) and feeling like being very goofy when I wrote it. So, some of the humor is of the tacky/crude/groaner sort. In the vein of being silly and dumb, I also loaded it with anachronisms on purpose including how the characters talk and the 'Clark Kent joke' late in the story. If you don't like tackiness, groaner humor, or anachronisms, you aren't going to fare well with this story. I'll skip over comments that complain it's tacky/crude/anachronistic because I've already owned up to that fact. Fair enough? 3) I like to exaggerate the quirks of particularly fun characters, so Siroc is a bit more eccentric in this story than he is on the show. 4) I know nothing about history. I do my best, but errors will be creep in. So, some anachronisms _aren't_ on purpose. Still, it's only fan fiction and meant to be read for fun. ;-) Please forgive my complete ignorance of all things scientific, medical, historical or French. Blame the Internet's translator's sites if my French is wrong.

Rating: For ages teen and up for some action-type violence, character owies, some angst, mild language, and _extremely_ dumb humor. Largely Siroc-centered, but everyone has at least one big scene. Nothing in here should be interpreted as 'shipiness (gen or slash). Original characters are not meant to be Mary Sues, are not my alter-egos and are not based on anyone I know. Opinions expressed are _strictly_ the characters' g . And speaking of Jeanette, as a member of the double-X chromosome gender, I hated writing a woman like her, but I needed a ditzy-doodle for plot purposes. I apologize upfront. Cities in France, except Paris, are fictional.

Disclaimer: The characters aren't mine, they're Dan Angel's, Billy Brown's, and PAX TV's, except for Monsieur Vieaux, Cecily, Bastelier, the doctor, Jeanette, Francois, Madame Vieaux, and my throwaway villains. I'm not profiting from this except in words from people who like my writing (thanks and hugs to those kind people). All inventions mentioned herein _are_ real or based on real ones (which is obvious in cases like the vacuum), you can look them up if you want. I was going to give proper credit, but I couldn't track down names to save my life. If you know who invented what, go ahead and say so in the reviews.

**Young Blades**

**"Red-Handed"**

_by llnbooks (a.k.a. llnbooks)_

**Teaser**

She hadn't bothered to completely change out of her uniform. Changing out of the elaborate wrappings and bulky garments that masked her obvious feminine attributes and transformed her every morning from 'Jacqueline' to 'Jacque' was a lengthy, cumbersome process. She had thrown on the bulkiest shirt she could find, which would pass for a nightshirt if anyone saw it, but she would leave on her trousers and she put off undoing the wrappings around her torso and letting down her hair for the night until she was sure that she would be allowed to sleep. Instead, she lay on her bunk and waited for the inevitable.

Jacqueline didn't have to wait long. She'd barely been stretched out on her bed a half-hour before it happened. Some nights, it was a mysterious odor---often quite noxious, some night it was an odd colored fog-like smoke drifting through the gap under her bedroom door, some nights it was a loud thump or crash, and some nights it was the sound of a small explosion like a shot from a pistol. Her first night in the Musketeers' barracks, it had been a horrendous thump that woke her, and she had rushed from her quarters---almost breaking her neck in her attempt to dress to cover her curves and draw her sword in one motion---in her grogginess believing that the barracks were under attack. This evening, it was a combination of the sound of a muffled _crack_ and then, before she even climbed off the bunk and opened her bedroom door, a faint odor that would have made kitchen trash smell like a meadow by comparison drifted down the hallway. The explosion and the odor had unmistakably come from the room at the end of the hallway.

Seconds after she stepped into the corridor, her comrades appeared, first Ramon and a few moments later D'Artagnan. Both looked to still be half-asleep and were in varying degrees of half-dressed, a fact she couldn't help but notice but pointedly ignored. She may have been posing as a man among the Musketeers ranks, but she was neither dead nor oblivious to the hazards of her disguise---namely that, since all except D'Artagnan believed her to be one of them, the men had no compunctions at all about wandering around the barracks in half-dressed states. In fact, as the only one privy to her secret, she was sure that D'Artagnan was going out of his way to do so just to irritate her.

D'Artagnan and Ramon nodded in acknowledgement to her, but no one said a word or even asked what had happened. There were a few complaints and idle threats shouted from elsewhere in the barracks, where others were trying to sleep, but no one, save for the three of them, bothered investigating the disturbance. Everyone knew what it was.

Wiping sleep from his eyes, Ramon led the way to the door at the end of the hallway. He never bothered with the courtesy of knocking (no one did, which was why Jacqueline had to keep her door locked at all times), but opened the door and walked right into the room. As soon as the door opened, purple foam ebbed from the room and into the corridor like a foul-smelling tide.

"This is new," was all Ramon said.

The three of them covered their noses and mouths with their handkerchiefs or pinching their noses closed and braved entering the room. They did their best to step around the goo. Ramon tried fanning away the smell with his hand and squinted, eyes watering, through the fog rising from the substance. It took a minute to spot the familiar figure that was running around the laboratory with bucket of rags, attempting to mop up the runaway wave of foam.

"Siroc?" Ramon tried shouting, but with the smoke stinging his throat, it came out as a squawk.

The inventor paused in his task only long enough to turn and look in their direction.

"Are you all right?" Ramon asked.

Apparently unfazed by the mess or the smell, Siroc resumed his clean up efforts. "I'm fine..just mixed a sulfur base by accident. I must have mislabeled the jar…although I'm not sure how that's possible…" His brow furrowed in concentration as he mentally recreated the experiment that had spawned the offensive tide.

Ramon still eyed the mess warily. "Are we in any danger?" He had to repeat the question a couple of times to break the inventor's concentration. When Siroc finally raised an eyebrow at his friend's question, the Spaniard gestured to the foam.

"No, no…I don't think so…" He snatched up another rag and dashed to intercept a curl of foam that was heading beneath his door into the adjacent stables. Jacqueline was long-since certain that these—creative accidents---were the reason Captain Duvall had stuck the scientist and his laboratory in the quarters closest to the stables…and the street…and farthest from the rest of the barracks, where an accident would do the least damage to the rest of their headquarters.

Ramon nodded, taking his friend at his word. "Goodnight, Siroc."

Siroc, in pursuit of the escaping foam, waved over his shoulder in reply. They left him to his work, closing the door behind them as they left the room. Siroc would likely be spending the next few hours before dawn cleaning up, Jacqueline knew, but he probably wouldn't be conducting any more of his experiments that evening. She could finally change into her bedclothes and go to sleep.

D'Artagnan trudged off in the direction of his own room, shaking his head. "Every night…"

**1**

On the Boulevard Trudeau

"Someone was in my lab."

Jacqueline had been trying to decide which was less tolerable---being paired for the long hours of patrol with D'Artagnan and his constant innuendo or with the rather taciturn inventor, who this particular day, still smelled faintly of the horrid foam from the previous night. She'd been riding as far upwind of Siroc as she could without being rude to escape some of the stench. The entire barracks still reeked of the stuff so that her appetite for breakfast had been wrecked entirely. The men had no such problem---she supposed they'd grown accustomed to dining despite the occasional strange odors from Siroc's experiments by now…or else they'd lost their sense of smell altogether.

Siroc had been preoccupied with his own thoughts for most of the morning that he and Jacqueline had been riding patrol. _Probably planning whatever experiment or contraption was going to awaken everyone that evening,_ she mused with a pang of dread. It was hard to tell what was going on in his mind, actually; she had only been with the Musketeers a couple of weeks and had barely worked with the inventor at all during that time. She didn't know much about him beyond the fact that one needed a team of horses to drag him out of his lab when he wasn't on duty and that he was the last one to go to sleep at night and the first one awake in the morning (being in the room nearest Siroc's, she could hear the noises and thumps whenever he was at work in the lab). It would seem there just weren't enough hours in the day for every project Siroc wanted to complete. She almost envied his having found the one thing in the world that he loved to do more than anything. Since her father had been murdered and she'd been forced to go on the run, she had felt adrift; her only purpose and pursuit in life was revenge on the man responsible for his death---Cardinal Mazarin. She didn't have time to think about where she belonged or what she would do with her life if she were allowed to choose.

Still, just a bit of conversation for the sake of warding off boredom during patrol would have been nice.

Jacqueline had resigned herself to a rather quiet patrol when the inventor had startled her with the remark. She reined her horse a bit to fall back within a conversational distance of him. "How can you possibly tell?" she asked. The laboratory---with its books, crates, jars, bottles, tools, drawers, cabinets, and dozens of half-completed projects---looked like nothing but one large pile of clutter to her.

"I've kept every book, jar, bottle, stick, and measuring spoon in exactly the same place in every laboratory since I was eight years old. I can tell," Siroc insisted.

"You were arranging books and jars when you were eight? Didn't you ever hear of playtime?" Jacqueline glanced at him and smiled just to let him know she was teasing. From the look in his eyes, he wasn't joking at all.

_Siroc had noticed the signs of something amiss after cleaning up the foamy mess the previous night. It was the fact that he'd mixed sulfur into his base during his experiment that had started him wondering. It wasn't like him to make such a mistake. In trying to figure it out, he had checked to be sure all his bottles were correctly labeled and in their proper place on the shelf. That was when he had noticed that some of the bottles had been turned so their labels did not face forward, the way Siroc always kept them so that they were easily readable. He supposed he could have put them back on the shelf that way…he had to frequently stop whatever project he was working on, put his materials away, and run out of the lab when called to duty. _

_Next, he noticed the books---he kept them in a very precise order, and they were quite clearly out of order. That unsettled him. His friends and comrades were welcome in the lab anytime they wished, of course, but the thought that someone had been in his private laboratory without his permission, riffling through his belongings and haphazardly shoving them back on the shelves wherever they felt like felt like a gross invasion of his privacy._

_Then he'd seen the red smudge, and moral outrage had given way to cold fear. The streak of red marred the corner of a drawer that Siroc kept locked at all times under direct orders of Captain Duvall. The red dust was an 'alarm', of sorts, that Siroc had designed to alert him if _anyone_ besides him had opened that drawer._

Siroc had Jacqueline's full attention now. She reined her horse to a stop. "What was in that drawer?"

**_Paris; Boulevard Trudeau; Five Years Earlier…_**

The chase began at the royal palace, a considerable distance from the alley that fronted Siroc's small room beneath the theater belonging to Monsieur Bastelier. The young inventor was, for the moment, ignorant of the fact that two figures in black were winding their way through the streets of Paris, approaching Boulevard Trudeau at breakneck speed, ignoring the shouts of "Stop!" from the two men in the gray coats of Musketeers who gave chase. At that moment, Siroc's entire being was focused on the tiny model he was constructing on his improvised worktable.

He didn't mind the cramped quarters. The only initial inconvenience was that there simply wasn't space for both a bed and a worktable, and Siroc had solved that problem within an hour of moving in: He'd shoved his small bunk into the corner farthest from the alley so as not to be disturbed by the drunks as they stumbled out the rear exit of Bastelier's theater and stumbled past Siroc's window. Then, Siroc had sawed the legs off his worktable and instead suspended the table from the wall using chains. While he was working, the tabletop hung directly above his empty bunk. When he wanted to sleep, he needed only to unhook the tabletop and stowed it beneath the bed. He didn't sleep more than four hours each night anyway. The few shelves he could fit in the room were filled to capacity with his bottles and jars and tools. His books were stacked, in their proper order, in another corner of the room. Another corner held a stand with a pitcher and basin.

A larger space for his laboratory would have been nice, of course, but this room was all he could afford since he'd moved to Paris, so it would have to do. Siroc had his privacy---he even had his own entrance, a door that opened into the alley, so that he didn't need to go through the theater and cross Bastelier's path if he'd rather not. Since maintaining employment—and keeping up with the rent---had been something of a problem, Siroc frequently wanted to avoid his landlord's path.

That night, unaware of the chase winding its way to his doorstep, Siroc had occupied his few free hours with his latest project. It had come to him in a moment of inspiration while working at the blacksmith's barn that morning: The horseless carriage. He'd thrown together a model in record time, and then began puzzling over a system of bands that would turn the wheels. _With the right source of propulsion, those bands would be able to turn all four wheels simultaneously. What_ _would the carriage use for propulsion, though? Pedals perhaps…_

Unfortunately, he'd wound the bands too tightly. When he let go of the model just for a moment, the contraption had rolled across his worktable, taken flight across the tiny room, and collided with the bottles on Siroc's shelves. The bottles, in turn, had fallen from the shelf into the empty porcelain chamber pot, of all infernal places, shattered, and their contents mixed together into a pool that promptly began smoldering.

An angry voice from upstairs responded to the crashing noises immediately: "Siroc! What was that noise!"

"Nothing, Monsieur Bastelier!" he shouted back. Siroc looked around the room, frantically trying to figure out what to do with the smoking mixture. He couldn't allow the smoke to be seen, or its horrid odor to drift up the stairs, or Bastelier would throw him out on the street.

"If you've broken something, boy…" Bastelier threatened.

"No, no…just…chasing off a rat. No need to concern yourself…" Siroc mentally added, _Don't come down here…_ He had to do something quickly---the fumes were so vile that the odor was actually making him see spots. Opening the window wasn't going to alleviate the problem quickly enough.

There was really only one thing to do.

Siroc picked up the basin and ran up the three steps that lead to his door, holding the smoldering pot as far from his face as he could and holding his breath. He kicked open the door and ran into the alley calling, "_Gardez l'eau_!" not because it was (entirely) accurate but because it was the only thing that sprang to mind in his hurried state. The warning…and the fact that the warning had come from someone carrying a chamber pot spewing blue smoke… penetrated even the rum-soaked minds of the vagrants in the alley and they ran away as fast as their unsteady legs allowed…

**_Present day_**

Jacqueline doubled over in her saddle with the force of her laughter, belatedly realizing her chuckles were decidedly _un_masculine.

"It wasn't _that_ funny," Siroc said.

She wiped tears from her eyes. "I'm almost afraid to ask what this has to do with the thieves at the palace?"

**_Boulevard Trudeau, Five Years Earlier_**

Siroc left the smoldering mess in the alley. His head was spinning badly from the fumes. When he ducked back into his room, he found a handkerchief and used it to cover his nose and mouth. The room still stank of the mixture…

Predictably, Bastelier's angry boom came from upstairs once more: "What's that stench!"

"Umm…" Siroc picked up a large book and attempted to fan the vapors out of the room through the open door. More vapors were coming into the room from the basin than were being fanned away, so he finally gave up. "…cheese?"

Bastelier harumphed. "Doesn't smell like it." Siroc heard the man's heavy footsteps coming down the stairs towards his room and calculated that he was about five minutes from being homeless.

First came the _thump_---two of them actually, only seconds apart---from the alley. Siroc knew that sound: It was the sound of bodies falling on pavement.

Then he heard the _clink_. The soft noise had come from the direction of the staircase, and Siroc turned just in time to see something bounce down his steps. The tiny object skittered across his floor and vanished under his bed. He was momentarily torn between investigating the strange object and seeking the source of the thumps, but chose the latter. Still covering his face with the cloth, he ran back up the stairs and into the alley, where he was greeted with the sight of two men in black garments sprawled face down on the pavement, surrounded by the cloud of vapors emanating from the basin.

_Oh no, I killed them…_

Siroc dove to the men, checking for signs of breath and heartbeats. It was with no small relief that he realized they were merely unconscious, not dead. He fetched a towel from his room and used it to cover the basin, hoping to cut the fumes, before returning to the duo. He tried shaking them by the shoulder. "Monsieur? Are you all right? I'm terribly sorry about this…" He wondered how angry they would be when they did finally wake…

"Madre de Dios…"

Siroc jumped a bit, thinking for a second that the oath had come from one of the men in black. He hadn't heard the sound of approaching footsteps, he only turned at the sound of the oath to discover two more men—these two wearing the gray coats of Musketeers---standing behind him. The Musketeers recoiled immediately from the stink, hesitating to approach. Distantly, Siroc noted that one was a dark-haired Frenchman and the other (if the accent hadn't made it apparent) a Spaniard. Siroc's main worry was that he'd just traded homelessness for residence in the king's dungeon. Surely rendering innocent men unconscious, however unintentionally, had to be some sort of crime.

Covering his face with a handkerchief, the Frenchman approached first. He stared at the unconscious men. "Are they---?"

Siroc answered quickly, "No, no…they're fine."

The Spaniard frowned, looking from the men to Siroc. "What did you do to them?"

"Nothing…I didn't…I wouldn't…not intentionally…" Siroc had no idea how to explain what had happened, so he pointed to the half-covered chamber pot. "…the vapors got to them."

Both Musketeers glanced at the chamber pot, then at Siroc, eyebrows arched in question.

"Not like _that_! It was the horseless carriage and….and the bottles fell in…and then the smoke…" Siroc felt his ears going red under their quizzical stares. _Not only will I be homeless, not only will I be in the dungeon, but there'll be some dreadful nickname for me involving chamber pots while I'm imprisoned…_

"What did you do, boy!"

The inventor and the Musketeers both whirled. Bastelier's large form was framed in Siroc's doorway. The landlord took in the sight of the unconscious men, the Musketeers, and the inventor…then saw the smoke. "Not again! I've had quite enough of you, boy…every night…" He pointed a fat finger at Siroc. "You pack your things and get out now!"

Siroc checked his pocketwatch. Five minutes on the button.

To Siroc's surprise, the Spaniard intervened: "This man had just helped us apprehend thieves who robbed the Prince himself…" The Musketeer fished through the thieves' pockets until he produced a small gold statue and a fistful of gems. "…and without the use of force. We're quite in his debt, as the Prince will be. Surely, you don't wish us to tell His Majesty that you rewarded this man's heroism by putting him on the street?"

Bastelier glowered at the Spaniard, but relented, not wanting to risk the Prince's wrath. He nodded his agreement to the Musketeer. To Siroc, he said only, "Clean up this mess, boy." Then he skulked back into the theater.

The Spaniard whistled. "I've met men trampled by horses who were in better humor than that man." He quirked an eyebrow at Siroc. "No relation of yours I hope?"

"Bastelier? Definitely not."

"Well, that's a consolation, at least." The Spaniard extended his hand to Siroc. "Ramon Montalvo Francisco de la Cruz. And my friend is D'Artagnan."

Siroc returned the handshake, feeling the first faint hope that he wasn't going to spend the night in the dungeons or sleeping on the street. "Siroc."

The fact that most people tended to react to the name 'D'Artagnan' either with awe or by challenging the Frenchman to a swordfight told Ramon that this kid wasn't from anywhere around Paris...or that he didn't get out of the house much. "Siroc. Pleasure to meet you. Tell me, are we in any danger here?"

Siroc had no idea what he meant. He followed Ramon's gaze to the basin. The cloth covering the chamber pot had begun to dissolve and the liquid inside was smoldering anew. The sides of the basin began to bubble. Siroc dove for the pot, snatching it up. He had to get rid of it before it did more harm, but where….

Finally, he had an idea. "River?" he asked the Musketeers. Two weeks in Paris, most of that spent running between his cramped home and wherever he was employed on a given day hadn't left Siroc much time for learning his way around the city.

D'Artagnan and Ramon pointed to the west. "That way," D'Artagnan answered.

"Merci." Siroc took off running, lugging the smoking basin with him.

As he left the duo, he heard the Spaniard say, "Pleasant fellow. Not a talker, but still, not boring. And what are we going to say if people ask why the river is smoking?"

D'Artagnan answered, "We won't say anything----we were never here."

"Fair enough."

**_Present day_**

"Did the river smoke?" The mental image of blue smoke rising from the Seine and the population of Paris, er, remarking on the phenomenon almost elicited another fit of laughter from Jacqueline. She contained herself only because the inventor was looking a little put out by her mirth.

"The theory was that the water would neutr----" Siroc noticed the grin tugging at the corners of her mouth and finally laughed a bit himself. "Only for a minute or two."

**_Boulevard Trudeau, Five Years Earlier_**

There was nothing left of the pot except scorched and oddly twisted porcelain that might have made a nice museum piece. Mercifully, it was very late in the evening (or very early in the morning), and the streets had been nearly deserted, so few people had witnessed either his dash—trailing blue smoke---to the Seine River or his walk back home, lugging the remains of the basin. By the time Siroc found his way through the unfamiliar streets back to the Boulevard Trudeau, the first streaks of gray dawn were lighting the sky, Bastelier's theater was darkened and empty, and the Musketeers and their quarry were long gone. His landlord would be asleep somewhere upstairs by now, and Siroc took great care not to make even the softest noise that might awaken him when he entered his own room and closed the door.

Siroc would have to leave soon for his job at the blacksmith's, so there was little point in trying to sleep now. He would have time only to change clothes and have breakfast before…

Then he remembered the small object that had fallen down his staircase when the thieves in black had collapsed on his doorstep. Forgetting melted basins and the upcoming day of horseshoes and hammers, Siroc moved to search beneath his bed until, by feeling around blindly, he grasped an object---round and heavy and the size of a melon. Pulling it from beneath the bunk, he found what seemed to be nothing more than a large chunk of volcanic pumice. _The thieves took this? They'd hardly fetch a good price for it…_

It was very heavy for simple pumice, Siroc automatically began scrutinizing the rock. Very heavy….and there was something wrong about the texture. He gave a gentle squeeze just to check, half-expecting his thumb to go right through the stone…

…and the stone split neatly into two halves.

_Interesting_.

There could be no doubt that the 'pumice' was nothing more than a fake shell, but Siroc barely had time to wonder what it was made of, because the contents of the shell drew his eye at once. Nestled within the 'pumice' were two objects that on first glance looked like diamond or crystal. The first object was the smaller and tubular in shape; the second, larger object was a pyramid etched with what might have been hieroglyphics (if they were, they were of a sort Siroc hadn't studied…and he'd studied quite a lot). The tubular crystal was unmistakably meant to be inserted into the pyramid, for the bottom of the pyramid had a circular opening of the exact same dimension of the cylindrical piece.

One thing about being an inventor was that, in a mental debate between scientific curiosity and prudent caution in determining a course of action, curiosity almost always won. At least, it did in Siroc's case. So, the temptation to see what would happen when the two crystalline pieces were merged quickly overrode his apprehension.

He didn't have time to regret the decision.

Immediately, the pyramid glowed with brilliance purple light. The beams moved almost like living tendrils, radiating in all directions as if seeking something. They fell onto the metal objects piled on shelves and scattered across the worktable. They found the handles on the drawers and, in turn, the drawers opened of their own volition and, as Siroc watched, the utensils and gadgets within the drawers and on the shelves began to shudder and buck, and finally became airborne. In the space of five seconds, every metal object in the room---many of them pointed and rather sharp---was on a collision course with the pyramid grasped in Siroc's hand.

Survival instinct saved him. He dropped the pyramid at once and dove for the only available refuge in the room---the tiny space between his bed and the workbench—while around him the inanimate objects in his quarters were drawn to the crystal pyramid. When the small utensils had piled themselves atop the object, the drawers pulled themselves free of their tracks and landed with noisy thuds atop the utensil pile. The lantern (thankfully, Siroc hadn't the money to buy oil to keep it lit) mounted to the wall pulled itself free and crashed into the drawers. Then, as the purple rays tugged at their metal pieces, the doors began opened with a _bang_ and began to pull themselves free of their mountings…

Siroc dove for the rubble pile. With extreme difficulty, he fought to against the pyramid's magnetic grip to sort through the debris until he found the crystal. The cylindrical piece resisted his efforts to separate it from its cradle. Finally, Siroc had tried smashing the pyramid against the floor, hoping to dislodge the tube or shatter the pyramid…

The solution would have been more obvious if he hadn't been distracted by the chaos: It was only a matter of pressing one finger against the tube to pop it free of the pyramid and the glow---with its accompanying magnetic force---ceased at once. Every possession he had was lying in a heap around him, but quiet and order were restored.

Almost. From upstairs, Bastelier's voice thundered: "_Siroc_!"

**_Present Day_**

Jacqueline frowned, questions filling her mind rapidly. "That's what was in the drawer? What was it? Why didn't you return it to the Prince? Does the Captain know?"

Siroc held up one hand. "One que---"

Motion, barely glimpsed from the corner of his eye, drew his gaze to the forest ahead of them. Something had moved in the undergrowth. As Siroc watched, what could only be the muzzle of a pistol poked from the brush and trained itself in the direction of the two Musketeers.

"Jacque, watch out!"

She hadn't seen the weapon, but at his shout, she reacted without question. Siroc had leaned forward so that he was almost lying flat across his horse's neck, so Jacqueline did the same. The shot rang out only a moment later, and she almost felt the ball as it sailed over their heads.

A masked rider emerged from the overgrowth. He was clad in a black uniform that they both recognized---they'd seen men in such uniforms when they'd rescued the captain's nephew from his abductors only a couple of weeks ago. The rider stared at the Musketeers for a moment---impossible to tell what he was thinking when the mask covered his face---then he turned and urged his horse to a gallop. He disappeared into the forest.

Jacque and Siroc pursued him. This far from the city, there was no way to know if any of the other Musketeers were close enough to have heard the shot and investigate, and they couldn't let their attacker slip away.

However, the farther into the woods they went, the more apprehensive both of them became. It was Jacqueline who slowed her pace first, proceeding with more caution. Siroc followed suit.

"He's trying to lead us deeper into the forest," she observed. She'd do what she had to in order to bring the man to justice, but she wasn't willing to be baited into a trap.

Siroc nodded. He'd just been thinking the same thing. They'd been sitting ducks on their horses. Why had the rider waited until he'd been spotted to fire? And why had his shot gone so wide of both of them?

A second shot rang out, and Siroc felt something like a giant fist slam into his shoulder. The impact knocked the breath right out of him, dislodged him from his mouth, and he hit the ground hard. The shot and the fall momentarily stunned him. From very far away, he heard Jacque shout his name. Then the pain came, white hot, radiating from his shoulder through his entire being.

Jacqueline heard the shot, heard a grunt from Siroc, and turned in time to see him fall from his mount and hit the ground with a jarring crash. He didn't move. For a terrible moment, she felt a déjà vu and the image of her father falling to the ground dead, mortally wounded by a bullet from the gun of Cardinal's guard, replayed in her mind.

"Siroc!" She was torn between the desire to go to her friend and the certainty that they were under attack.

The choice was made for her when four riders in black appeared, bearing down on the Musketeers. She drew her sword and put herself between the riders and her comrade. One moved directly for the unmoving Siroc. The other three answered Jacqueline's challenge by raising their own blades. They drove her back, away from Siroc, surrounding her until she had escape from the onslaught except by diving from her own horse. She rolled away and then quickly climbed to her feet, backing away to keep her foes in front of her as the trio tried once more to surround her.

The fourth rider dismounted, stalking over to Siroc's inert form. With the toe of his boot, he rolled the young man onto his back, presuming the Musketeer to be dead. The last thing the rider in black saw was the telltale glint of steel---Siroc's eyes snapped open and, before the attacker could react, he drove his blade hilt-deep through the man's sternum. The man in black was dead before his body hit the ground.

The battle raging between Jacqueline and her opponents paused for a millisecond at the noise of the man's death rattle. Jacqueline breathed a prayer of thanks before renewing her fight against the black-uniformed men. Another rider in black, realizing the blonde Musketeer was not as dead as they'd first presumed, abandoned the scuffle with Jacqueline and strode towards Siroc.

Siroc managed only to push himself up into a sitting position, but still raised his sword with his good arm, intent on delaying her death and his own for as long as possible.

The rider paused mid-stride, staying out of the wounded man's reach, abruptly changing his tactics. He sheathed his sword and pulled his pistol from his belt. He trained the weapon at Siroc. "The Stone of Vesuvio. Where is it?"

Insanely, sitting there with crippling pain in his shoulder, waiting to die, it was the man's hands that had Siroc's attention. The riders were all wearing gloves, but the Musketeer would have wagered that, beneath those gloves, at least one of the men now had bright red hands. He wondered which one it was, if the man pointing the weapon at him now was the one who'd had the temerity to intrude into Siroc's laboratory. He glared at the rider, "Were you the one who disorganized my books?"

The man drew back the hammer of the pistol. "The stone."

"I really have no idea what you're talking about," Siroc tried.

The man fired. Siroc squeezed his eyes shut and willed himself not to flinch. As he expected, the shot missed his head by the slightest of margins and slammed into the dirt behind him. The scuffle between Jacqueline and the remaining riders ceased at once and all three watched the standoff. The two riders kept their swords pointed towards Jacqueline, lest she interfere.

"The stone."

Siroc would have shaken his head at the man's stubbornness, except that, half-dizzy as he already was, he was afraid the motion would cause him to blackout. "Am I supposed to be gallivanting around the forests with an artifact like that in my pocket? That would be irresponsible of me..."

The eyes, visible through the rider's mask, blazed in fury now. In one smooth movement, he turned the pistol away from Siroc and aimed it squarely at Jacqueline. Siroc did not look at his comrade, knowing if he did, his friend would be shaking her head, 'Don't tell them.'

"Ah, I see my reputation for brashness precedes me." Carefully, Siroc unfastened his gray coat. There was a false lining sewed inside. When he tore it open, a small cloth bag tumbled out. Siroc passed it along to the rider.

The rider inspected the contents of the bag. Satisfied, he tucked the bag into his own pocket, but did not lower his weapon until his fellow riders had confiscated the Musketeers' blades. When they did, the two raised their own pistols towards Siroc and Jacqueline and cocked the weapons…

The third rider snapped, "Leave them! We have what we came for."

One man in black protested, "But we were told----"

"I don't give a damn. One dead Musketeer brings the wrath of the whole of the Musketeers down on you, but two dead Musketeers?" The rider shook his head. "Take their horses. By the time they reach Paris----" He eyed Siroc's wounded shoulder. "_If_ they reach Paris, we'll be long gone. Move out!"

Grudgingly, the other men did as were told. Forgetting the Musketeers, they gathered the reins of Jacqueline and Siroc's horses, mounted their own rides, and galloped deeper into the forest. The thunder of hoof beats faded rapidly, leaving Jacqueline and Siroc stranded.

**2**

Monsieur Vieaux's Apprentice

"You should go after them. You can follow their tracks."

"Yes, probably," Jacqueline said in answer to both of Siroc's statements, but she made no move to do either. She moved instead to help him. He was managing to sit upright by leaning his back against a tree, but the effort it was costing him was betrayed by his pallor and the clench of his jaw as he gritted his teeth against the pain. Blood soaked his shoulder. He had his good hand pressed against the wound, but Jacqueline would need to examine the injury and bandage it as best she could. She balked, not from the injury or the crimson stains, but because the image of her father and a similar wound would not let her be. Stalling, she asked, "How bad is it?"

He made a face as though that were a ridiculous question. "Well, it's a metal ball lodged in my shoulder, it hurts like the devil, and this coat's completely ruined, so it's not great…I mean, there's clearly nothing to be said for getting shot."

"Clearly. I owe you one for saving my life."

"Just one? I counted at least twice I saved you..."

He was teasing her now. She must be doing worse than she thought at hiding her discomfort if he was trying to put her at ease. She forced a smile. "You sound like D'Artagnan."

Siroc considered that. "Do I? Must be the loss of blood…"

Jacqueline had to bite her lip at that one. He'd never know how accurate _that_ remark had been…

She could put it off no longer. She composed herself, forcing her father's memory from her mind. As gently as she could, Jacqueline helped him out of his bulky coat, then carefully pulled his shirt back to get a look and the wound. She kept up the dialogue as she worked, to distract him from the pain she was no doubt causing with her ministrations and to keep herself from becoming ill at the sight of the injury. "How far would you say it is back to Paris?"

"On foot? One hour. Three?" He knew that was an optimistic guess, and so did she. They'd have to hope they ran into someone---preferably someone with horses or a cart---along the way, or…well, they would simply have to find someone. Jacqueline would not let herself think about the consequences if they didn't.

"You wouldn't have anything for dressing wounds, would you?" she asked him.

"In my bag…"

She took a glance around, but didn't see a bag.

"…on my horse," he added.

"Of course." Jacqueline cringed at her own word choice. "Now, Ramon's got me spouting rhymes." She leaned back, weighing options. She really had no idea if the wound was serious or not. Siroc might have known, he'd no doubt studied medicine along with the myriad other science texts he'd read, but he was in no condition to be of help. _What to do now?_ The wound needed bandaging, and they had none. She'd have to improvise something, and all they had were the clothes on their backs. Jacqueline for damn sure wasn't stripping off her shirt, not if she could help it---

Her gaze fell on the corpse of their attacker…and on the shirt he wore beneath his black uniform. _That will do._

She removed the rider's mask, studying the man's features. She didn't recognize him. Then, she turned the man's head so that Siroc could see his face. "Anyone you know?" she asked.

Siroc shook his head, "No."

Next, Jacqueline rolled the body and methodically stripped off the dead man's shirt and began tearing it into strips. The glint of steel drew her attention to something the other riders had missed: While concerning themselves with taking Jacqueline and Siroc's weapons, they'd completely forgotten the pistol still tucked into their own comrade's uniform. A quick search of the body found three more shots for his pistol. Three shots. She could work with that. He also still had his sword, so she took that as well. Things were looking up.

Next, again as methodically and carefully as possible, she removed what was left of Siroc's ruined shirt and set about bandaging his injury. He watched her struggle to get the bandages to stay in place and began thinking aloud: "…you know, with a bit of epoxy around the edges, a bandage might hold itself in place…"

She had no idea what that meant, but still grinned a bit. Well, that was one way to distract him, so she pressed, "Have you always been an inventor?"

In spite of the situation, he grinned at the question. "You could say that."

**_Guierre, France…many years earlier…_**

The consensus about the small village was that there was "something very odd about that child".

In every way, he was unlike his peers…right down to his sleep habits: Four hours of sleep each night, then up and at the world. No amount of threats, pleading, lecturing, or confinement to his bedroom had any effect. He simply didn't require the rest. Growing weary of attempting to change his habits, his parents next tried to occupy his early morning hours with chores to tire him into sleep, to no avail. Resigned, they instructed him to sit quietly with his books until it was a more appropriate hour to be up and about.

The extra time for study served only to feed his innate curiosity, and his natural hyperactivity didn't lend itself to long hours of inactivity. He could barely abide losing precious time to slumber, much less tolerate whiling away the hours sitting around. It was too great an inconvenience when there was much to see and much to study in a very large world.

Very early one morning, while the sky was still black and the stars shone brightly, he crept out of the house to the barn, picked up some of his father's tools, and set about testing an idea he'd had while studying a text on the subtle changes arch of the sun throughout the year. By the time his parents awoke that morning, the roof of their stable had been replaced by a rather bizarre concoction resembling a staircase---painted bright white on the face of the 'steps' and black on the sides. The boy explained that the white was meant to repel heat during the summer, when the sun was directly overhead, and the black was meant to attract the heat during the winter, when the angle of the sun was lower in the sky.

Not as appreciative of the scientific practicality of the atrocious-looking thing, his parents had to pay to have the roof restored to its former run-down glory immediately.

By the time Siroc had turned eight, he had an entire corner of the barn set up with his own set of tools. He spent most of his waking hours there building "toys" (what his father called the odd contraptions his son constructed, since he had no idea really what else to call the things). The set-up came to an abrupt end when one of the boy's creations nearly burned the barn to the ground. This event convinced his harried parents that the boy would be better off at a school where teachers could properly channel his…'creativity'.

The schools' responses to their new student usually arrived very quickly. The letters to Siroc's parents usually opened with "_Please come and collect your son immediately…"_ and invariably concluded with "_You will, of course, compensate the school for the necessary repairs_".

"He's always had a brilliant mind. Ever since he was a small child," Mother had explained to one particularly agitated headmaster.

Father interjected, "He just wastes time on trivial pursuits. An honest job and some real work would do him good."

Mother frowned at that. "He's only eight."

The Headmaster interrupted, "We appreciate Siroc's…creativity. He's our brightest pupil. It's just that…" The man tried to be delicate. "…we feel he'd do much better with a private tutor. A mentor if you will. With Siroc's intelligence, he simply requires more—attention---than it's possible for our teachers to give. We have the education and safet—er, well-being---of the other students to consider. I have a name to give you…" The headmaster picked up a quill and carefully printed a name and address on a piece of parchment.

A voice from the corner of the room suggested, "If you devised a hollow container with a quill tip at one end---something slender to rest comfortably between the fingers---you could fill it with ink so that the quill would ink itself…"

The headmaster quite distinctly whimpered. "Yes, yes, very good, Siroc, I'll see to that at once. Now, Monsieur, Madame, here's the name of the teacher I had in mind. Monsieur Antoine Vieaux. He was an instructor at our school for many years before he retired. For the right price, I'm sure he'd agree to take on young Siroc as an apprentice."

Father took the parchment. "Merci."

The headmaster added, "There's just one other matter…" He sorted through the papers on his desk and handed one to Siroc's parents. "…you will, of course, compensate our school for the damages?"

All eyes turned to the boy, who'd been sitting in a chair in the corner for the duration of the conference. Despite the fact that his eyebrows had been completely singed away and his hands were now tinted bright red, the boy still managed to affect a look of complete innocence.

Mother sighed, "Oui, Monsieur…"

**_Present Day_**

"Right, then," Jacqueline's voice brought Siroc's drifting attention back to the present. She had finished with the bandages as best she could. His shirt was a wreck, but she salvaged enough pieces for strips to immobilize his bad arm. Next, she helped him pull his good arm into the sleeve of his overcoat and fastened it closed as best she could. "We have to get moving."

His eyelids were drooping. Jacqueline raised her voice: "Siroc? Are you ready?"

He opened his eyes at once. "No."

"Good. Let's go." Jacqueline took hold of his good arm and, with some difficulty, pulled him to his feet. Hr grunted at the motion. She caught him around the waist with one arm, letting him lean on her for support. "No time to waste…" When he didn't answer, she shook his good arm. "Siroc? You were telling me about red hands and laboratories? Tell me some more…"

**_Guierre, France. Many years earlier._**

"Siroc! Do hurry up. Monsieur Vieaux's carriage is coming. No time to waste!" Father's called from the other room.

Siroc was doing his best to obey, but he was being slowed both by the task of packing and by the distraction of an itchy collar. His mother had insisted the boy dress in his very best clothing for Monsieur Vieaux's arrival ('best' being the coat and trousers that the child hadn't wrecked with dirt smudges, grass stains, grease and oil from his tools, or managed to burn holes in while working on his projects). She'd starched the collar of his finest shirt into inflexibility, so the material was stiff and scratched at his neck with the slightest turn of his head. There was nothing to be done for the green tint on Siroc's hands. The color vexed his parents despite his promise that it would wear off in a few months. He didn't see why _they_ should be upset---it was _his_ classroom experiment that had been ruined by a too-skittish instructor, after all.

Packing troubled him more than inconsequential details such as clothing. He had one trunk in which to collect everything he was going to need during his time with the Vieauxs. The space was much too limited for all the books, tools, and clothing he wanted to take with him. No matter how Siroc arranged and rearranged the items, the trunk simply wouldn't hold it all. He decided that he would have to take only what was the most important, therefore, some of the clothing would have to be left behind. He needed only a couple changes of clothes---his mother had said he would outgrow most of it within the year anyway. Tools and books, however, would serve him much longer.

"Siroc! Leave the trunk and come here!" Father sounded more impatient now. After removing half of the clothing from the trunk, Siroc managed to close the lid. Satisfied, he hurried to join his parents at the front door.

"This collar itches. Isn't there something that could make the fabric…softer?" Siroc complained.

His mother crinkled her nose. "Why ever would one wear a _soft_ collar? That wouldn't be very fashionable. Here, let me help." She did her best to adjust the collar and then set about finger-combing his hair, which simply refused to lie flat. She'd been weepy and fussed this way for the past week as Siroc's departure loomed closer, but had offered her son constant encouragement. _This is an invaluable opportunity, Siroc. When such an opportunity comes to you, you must be brave. _She'd said the same thing each time he'd been bundled off to a boarding school in the past year.

Her eyes fell on the singed remnants of his eyebrows and she made a soft noise in her throat. "Those eyebrows…Monsieur Vieaux is a scientist, Siroc. Treat him with all proper respect…"

"Yes, Mother…"

"…dress your very best for your lessons and do precisely as he tells you…"

"Yes, Mother…"

"…You'll be traveling in important circles and meeting the finest people in Guierre, perhaps even the society of Paris, so…"

Father tsked, "Try not to cause any fires or turn their hands red."

"Yes, Father."

"Armand!" Mother shook her head. "Your father is teasing you, Siroc. Now, when Monsieur Vieaux arrives, you'll say---good heavens, when did you last wash behind your ears? You can't have dirty ears to welcome such a refined gentleman as Mons…"

She noticed that she no longer had her son's full attention. Siroc and his father were staring at the carriage that was ever so slowly winding its way up the path to their small farm. "What is _that_?" Father gaped.

Upon second glance, they could see that it was no 'fine carriage' approaching the house. It was a wagon, and a rickety one at that. The sides were tall, the lumber faded and split with age. Letters, equally faded with age, painted on the side of the cart read: _G. Vieaux---A Handy Man For Your Home Or Shop. Repairs, Chimney and Street Sweeping, Stables Cleaned. Negotiable Fees._ The smell of dirty straw and dirt poured from the wagon. Assorted tools and brushes were visible through the gaps between the boards. A dapple-gray horse well past its prime tugged the wagon along at a snail's pace. The driver was a gray-haired man in clothing nearly as soiled as the cart. It was impossible to distinguish if his skin were tanned or merely caked in dirt.

"Perhaps you should change your clothes," Father suggested to Siroc.

Seemingly oblivious to the family's stares, the driver greeted them with a cheerful "Bonjour!" and a grin that was brilliant but missing more than a few teeth. "Monsieur, Madame…and you must be Siroc?"

"This has to be a mistake," Mother gasped. This was the venerable Monsieur Vieaux? The man royalty and the wealthiest of the wealthy had once sought to instruct their children?

"Monsieur Vieaux?" Father asked rather nervously.

With some difficulty, the driver climbed down from his perch on the rickety cart. "I'm late, oui. My apologies. I'm afraid Gaston doesn't move as quickly as he used to…but, neither do I, as you can see." Vieaux hobbled a bit as he approached the group, but his smile never dimmed.

Mother was still wide-eyed. "Monsieur Gilbert Vieaux…" The elderly man gave a slight bow in answer and gallantly kissed the back of her hand. "It is our honor to meet you. This is not meant to be disrespectful, but we were told that you are a professor of the sciences---"

"…and you wonder why a man of sciences travels by such humble means, oui?" Vieaux finished for her. "I am indeed a scientist---scientist, inventor, philosopher…skills in limited demand among the common population, I'm afraid. One must pay one's bills however he can manage, but do not worry, Madame, Monsieur, this is only my job during the day." He directed his smile to Siroc. "Perhaps I should say _our_ day job?"

Siroc dove behind his parents.

"The Lord gave us daylight for our physical labor and the evening for intellectual pursuits. This is also why He gave us the lantern. Work first, study afterwards." Reading skepticism on their faces, Vieaux sighed. "I can assure you, I'm well qualified to help young Siroc acquire a proper education in all things scientific. Of course, he will have to pry himself away first…" He nodded to the boy, who was still hiding behind his parents.

Mother reached backwards to pat the boy's shoulder, "Siroc, manners! Say hello to Master Vieaux."

Siroc peeked out from behind her, only enough to glance at the man. The one eye visible to the elderly professor still betrayed wariness. "Hello," the child said.

"You can handle a pitchfork and shovel, yes?" Vieaux asked him.

The boy gulped and disappeared back behind his parents.

"Siroc, go and fetch your trunk," Father ordered. Happy for the chance to get away, Siroc ran for the safety of his bedroom.

Vieaux called after him, "Let me help…"

Father held up a hand, "There's no need, Monsieur."

The older man insisted, "The trunk must be heavy. It's no trouble."

Father finally smiled. "You misunderstand, Monsieur. Siroc has his own way of doing things…" A distinct creaking noise from the direction of the boy's room underscored his father's point. "There, you'll see for yourself in a moment…"

It was Monsieur Vieaux who watched, open-mouthed, when Siroc reappeared. The child was easily managing to lug his large trunk---easily because he had attached wheels to it so that the heavy baggage rolled smoothly across the floorboards. He stopped before the adults, apprehension in his eyes.

"Mon dieu…" Vieaux murmured. "How old are you, boy?"

"I'm nine this month," Siroc answered.

"_Nine_?" The professor repeated.

Mother misinterpreted the question. "He'll be no trouble, Monsieur, I promise."

"Trouble?" Vieaux shook his head. "On the contrary, Madame, if this is an indication of what the boy is capable of achieving, then I expect he'll be challenging me for the duration of his apprenticeship…and keeping me on my toes." His brilliant grin returned anew. "I'm looking forward to it even more now. Tell me, Siroc, have you any other creations to share?"

The boy brightened, all apprehension vanishing in the face of the older man's interest in his work. No one had _asked_ to see one of his inventions before…unless they wanted to confiscate it. "Oui, Monsieur, in the barn…wait, I have some in here!" Siroc dropped to his knees and unlocked the trunk.

Vieaux kneeled next to him. "What ever happened to your hands?"

"The base was too acidic."

No further explanation was needed for the professor to comprehend. "Ah…that would account for the eyebrows as well. We shall repeat your experiment and ferret out the error in calculations as our first lesson…"

Mother was more worried about what was conspicuously absent from the trunk. "Siroc, where are the rest of your clothes?"

"There wasn't enough room for all of them. I need my books and tools," Siroc answered.

Vieaux laughed and patted him on top of the head in approval. "The boy knows his priorities. We'll get along just fine…"

**_Present Day_**

Jacqueline used the first shot when, after walking for what felt like an eternity, they emerged from the forest. She fired into the air, and the crack of the pistol echoed. She knew it had to have been heard for miles, and waited several minutes for someone to investigate the sound. There wasn't a soul to be seen any place and no one appeared in response to the shot. _Where the hell is everyone?_ _If D'Artagnan was off pursuing some simpleton of a mademoiselle or Ramon was off on another afternoon of poetry and that infernal 'coffee' drink while she and Siroc were having a crisis, she'd use the pistol to knock both of them in the head…_

Siroc had stopped talking. He'd opened his eyes for a moment at the boom of the pistol shot, but only a moment. She knew the effort of walking was wearing him down, and she hated causing further exertion by forcing him to talk, but she knew it was important. Jacqueline shook him again and raised her voice. "Siroc? The Vieauxs? Tell me about them…"

**_Guierre, France. Many years earlier_**

The most remarkable thing happened shortly after Siroc's arrival at the home of Monsieur and Madame Vieaux: He overslept.

Vieaux's day, like Siroc's, began before dawn. Siroc's responsibility, as part of his board with the couple, was to report to their small barn to feed the animals, brush Gaston, make sure Vieaux's tools were in good repair and that the cart was clean, and to be ready by sunrise for a day of helping his instructor with odd jobs for the people of Guierre. After a full day trudging around cleaning stables, repairing carriages, and any other tasks they were employed to complete, the two of them returned to the farm. Siroc would go to his room---a cozy room adjacent to the barn---to find clean towels and a tub full of hot water waiting, provided courtesy of Madame Vieaux. She would scrub the dirt out of his work clothes as best she could, and when she felt the fabric was beyond salvaging with soap or the boy had just outgrown the articles, a new set of clothes would appear along with the towels. Siroc knew his parents were not paying the Vieauxs enough money that she should go to such expense as new clothes, but Madame Vieaux wouldn't hear any argument or accept anything beyond gratitude for such gifts. Siroc was expected, after work each day, to bathe, change into the clean clothes, and then report with his books to the main house for evening meal and lessons.

A large room at the rear of the house had been transformed into Vieaux's laboratory. Vieaux's reputation as an instructor turned out to be well deserved, and he had given the boy free rein to use the laboratory any time he wished, so long as his lessons and chores were completed first. Siroc had never had unfettered access to such a laboratory before (in fact, his instructors at every boarding school had been wary of letting him loose in their laboratories even for lessons), and he spent more time there than in his own room. Vieaux forgave the occasional "accident" with good humor.

Unaccustomed to that much physical labor, and losing too much sleep in his enthusiasm to try every experiment that he'd never had the means to attempt before, Siroc had simply worn himself out by the end of his first week at the Vieaux's. On his sixth morning there, Siroc opened his eyes and, to his very great surprise, saw the first pale streaks of dawn through his bedroom window. He had all but jumped out of bed, dressed in a hurry, and ran into the barn to take care of his morning chores. He had slept _five_ hours! How had that happened?

He found Vieaux in the barn, already halfway through Siroc's chores. "If you doused the oil lamp at a reasonable hour, you'd awaken at a reasonable hour, Siroc," Vieaux said in greeting. His tone was one of amusement, not anger. The elderly man had already grown used to being awakened by the late night noises from his laboratory. He would tell Siroc later that having the boy in the house had given him more empathy for what Madame Vieaux had tolerated so many years living with an inventor.

Siroc began to explain, "I was working on---"

Vieaux waved a hand. "Yes, yes, the second rule of innovation is 'when the creative flame is burning, never douse it. It may not re-ignite.'" The older man was rather fond of coining such pearls of wisdom. "However, the first rule is 'never let the mind override the body's better judgment." He turned to wink at the boy. "In other words, sleep when you're tired."

The boy sulked. "What if sleeping douses the 'creative flame'?"

Vieaux grinned. "That's why the Lord gave us quills and parchment---so you can leave yourself a note to remember where you left off." With that, his instructor passed Siroc a bucket of grain for Gaston.

It wasn't long after that Siroc came up with a way to be sure he didn't 'oversleep' no matter how late he stayed in the laboratory. It was a simple matter of using a scale, a bell, a counterweight, and sand from hourglass to devise a 'clock' (of sorts) that would ring the bell to awaken him precisely four hours after Siroc activated it…

**_Present Day_**

His legs felt like lead, his shoulder ached, and, even though he was leaning most of his weight on something (he could quite convince his heavy eyelids to open long enough to see what was supporting him), Siroc was actually quite tired at the moment.He had no recollection of why, given those facts, he had decided that a walk through the countryside was a good idea._ Maybe Master Vieaux was right about listening to the body's 'better judgment'._

Siroc faltered a step. That was the only warning Jacqueline had before he stumbled and nearly tumbled to the ground. Since she still had his arm wrapped around her shoulders, Jacqueline managed to prevent his fall, nearly loosing her own footing as she did so.

"…rest when you're tired…" he mumbled, not opening his eyes.

"All right." _Was that a request or was he starting to babble?_ Jacqueline didn't know, but she stopped. She would let him rest for a minute, but that was all the time they could spare. Awkwardly, still supporting his weight, she loaded the second shot into the pistol and fired into the air again.

"Hello!" Her shout followed the pistol shot. "Anyone!" _Honestly, we should be close enough to the city for someone to hear us…a farmer, a Musketeer, a vagrant for God's sake…_

No one answered, and she couldn't wait. She had to get Siroc home.

"Come on, Siroc…we have to keep moving. Let me help." He was getting heavier the longer they walked, leaning more of his weight on her, and Jacqueline almost stumbled herself as they resumed their hike towards the city. "Siroc? Keep talking. When did you leave the Vieauxs?"

**_Guierre, France. Several years earlier_**

"…in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. Amen."

The congregation responded as one: "Amen."

Monsieur and Madame Vieaux insisted that a person needed to attend to the soul with the same fervor with which he cultivated the mind and cared for the body. It was only then, Vieaux said, that a person could be whole. Siroc had thought that, as a guest in their home, perhaps he should at least respectfully sit in the back of the church or at least in the pew behind them, but they wouldn't hear of it. No, from the first week he'd arrived in their home, Siroc was required to sit each Sunday beside Madame Vieaux as part of their family. He had spent every Sunday for the past seven years repaying that privilege by keeping at least one set of pristine clothing to wear to church (although he had improvised soap that left the collar much softer and less scratchy), studying the scriptures with the same attention he gave his science texts, and doing nothing whatsoever that would remotely embarrass the couple.

"This concludes our services for the day. May the Lord bless you all," the priest blessed the congregation.

Usually, once the services were concluded, Siroc went to fetch the cart while the Vieauxs waited in the church. That morning, however, Monsieur Vieaux turned to the teenager before Siroc could stand up and head to the door. "Siroc, I've asked the Rollins' boy to bring our cart around. I wonder, would you escort Madame Vieaux to the cart and see her settled? I'll be along in a moment."

"Yes, sir," Siroc answered automatically. The request puzzled him. As Madame Vieaux took his arm and let him lead the way to the door, Siroc glanced back. Monsieur Vieaux had gone to converse with the priest---and spoke to the priest for quite a long time. Siroc had helped Madame Vieaux aboard the cart and waited a quarter hour with no sign of his mentor emerging from the church.

So, when someone behind him cleared their throat for his attention, Siroc expected it to be Master Vieaux. He turned to find a trio of girls standing there. One of them, blonde and very pretty, had made the noise. She stood a few steps in front of her friends. She blushed a bit, which only made her more attractive. "You're Monsieur and Madame Vieaux's son?" she asked.

"Uh…" He was staring, but he couldn't help it. His mind had abandoned him completely, which made formulating a reply very difficult. "…no, apprentice. I'm Monsieur Vieaux's apprentice."

The girl smiled. "'Monsieur Vieaux's apprentice…" She indicated the lettering on the side of the rickety old cart. "…You can repair a cart, oui?"

Siroc's brain still wouldn't help him, and now his heart was pounding rather loudly in his ears, so he settled for nodding rather dumbly.

"Good." She handed him a small piece of paper. An address and a name—Cecily—had been printed in small, neat letters on the parchment. "At your convenience, Monsieur Vieaux's apprentice." With that, she hurried back to her friends, waved a farewell over her shoulder, and the trio went on their way, exchanging whispers and a couple of backwards glances at him. Siroc could feel his ears go red under their scrutiny.

"The mademoiselle might find it less cumbersome if you offer your name next time."

Siroc hadn't seen Monsieur Vieaux approach, but obviously his mentor had witnessed the exchange. Automatically, Siroc offered him the paper. "It was…she has work for us."

His teacher wouldn't take the paper. "Somehow, my boy, I think if I were the one to answer her call, the lady would be terribly disappointed." Monsieur Vieaux was smirking rather enigmatically, and even Madame Vieaux was smiling. Siroc wondered if it was possible that he could blush hard enough to burst into flames. "_Never_ disappoint a lady, my boy," Vieaux added.

**_Present Day_**

"Always good advice," Jacqueline confirmed.

**_Guierre, France. Several years earlier_**

Siroc knew it would be impolite to ask his mentor's business with the priest, but he still could not help but wonder about it for the entire drive back to the Vieauxs and the rest of the evening. He had worked side-by-side with his mentor all day every day (except Sundays) studied under Vieaux's tutelage every evening for seven years. The man's energy for work and for intellectual pursuits had always been boundless. Despite the gap in their ages, Siroc was almost always the one trying to keep up with the pace of the older man…until the past few months. There were days, more and more of them each month, when Vieaux had sent Siroc off to handle the day-to-day tasks of his 'handy man' services on his own, saying only "I'm a bit tired today, Siroc. Would you mind seeing to our customers yourself?"

The pattern repeated itself the next morning. Siroc was awake before dawn, as customary, and had finished feeding Gaston and preparing the cart by sunrise without one sign of his mentor. The teenager hadn't wanted to intrude on his mentor's privacy, so he waited until he finally saw lamplight in the kitchen window of the main house—a sign the older man was finally awake and about---before going to see what had delayed Vieaux.

"Monsieur Vieaux?" He knocked quietly, not wanting to disturb Madame Vieaux, who considered dawn 'an ungodly hour to be about any business' and adamantly refused to have anything to do with the early hour.

Vieaux's voice answered the knock at once. "Goodness, my boy, you should know there's no need for you to knock." He shook his head affectionately at the teenager's ingrained politeness. It was a gesture of Siroc's respect for his mentor and for Madame Vieaux, the older man knew. As such, even after all their time together, Vieaux had never rid his apprentice of the need to use such formalities with him and gave up trying. "Come in, come in."

Siroc opened the door and stepped into the small kitchen, still mindful to step lightly and not wake the lady of the house. Vieaux sat at the dining table, a pot of tea and two cups in front of him. "Good morning, Siroc," he greeted, offering one of the cups to his pupil.

Vieaux was still in his sleeping clothes. Siroc knew what that meant, but he had to hear it from his mentor. "I have the cart ready."

"Oh, bless you, my boy." Vieaux sipped at his own tea, weariness etched at the corners of his eyes. "I'm a bit tired today. I wonder if you would mind---?"

Siroc knew the question and answered at once, "Of course, sir." It wasn't unexpected.

Vieaux nodded, "Thank you, Siroc."

The teenager turned back to the door, but Vieaux called after him: "Wait a moment. Here, sit with me."

The odd request unsettled Siroc a bit, though he wasn't sure why he was apprehensive. He joined his mentor at the table as requested, taking the chair opposite Vieaux's. "Siroc, are you happy with us?" his mentor asked.

"Yes, sir." Siroc wracked his brain trying to remember if he'd done something of late to make Monsieur Vieaux think otherwise, but couldn't recall anything.

Vieaux seemed pleased by that. "I became a teacher because Madame Vieaux and I weren't able to have children of our own. I wanted to be able to pass along everything that I'd seen and learn---to pass along my joy at simply having the ability and time to see and learn. Alas, my students did not share my zeal for science and innovation…my lessons were merely necessary burdens for them to endure for the required hours until they could be off on more enjoyable pursuits. But you, dear boy, you…understand. When I met you, I saw the same intelligence, the same inquisitive nature I had as a child.

"I brought you here because I knew I could foster that busy mind of yours, because I finally had someone to---inherit---all the things I'd learned and seen. Granted, I did not appreciate just _how_ busy that mind of yours is. You never stop asking questions about everything around you---the hows, whats and the whys---and you never stop trying to find the answers to your own questions. I've never seen anyone resent the necessity of sleep for stealing time from innovation. I've rather enjoyed having someone who shared my passion for learning and creating."

Vieaux sighed, glancing down at a spot on his teacup, avoiding the teenager's gaze. "The problem, Siroc, is that you've learned all I have to teach you years back…learned from me and surpassed me. Crafts that travel underwater. Flying machines. Horseless carriages. I'd never have thought of them." Vieaux chuckled at the memory of how many gadgets and models lined the shelves of his laboratory/classroom---all of them the boy's designs---and how many experiments had been conducted (and how many fires and spills doused and covered before Madame Vieaux could discover them) in that room. "I should have sent you away at least one full year ago, but I didn't. I have nothing left I can teach you, and I've done an unforgivable thing---I've kept you here for selfish reasons…"

Already shocked at his mentor's confession, Siroc couldn't imagine what was coming next, but he didn't interrupt.

"…I really do enjoy having the company of another inventor, but…you've also taken on more work for me lately, I know, and that keeps the roof over our heads and food on our table. But, that's not fair to you, Siroc. The Lord has a much grander scheme for your life to bless you with the mind he's given you, grander than puttering in an old man's laboratory and mending the roofs and carriages of Guierre. It's time that you discovered that scheme."

Siroc sat quietly for a long time, absorbing all that Vieaux had said. The teenager had known his time with the Vieauxs would come to an end sooner or later, but now that the time was upon him, Siroc was hesitant to go. Worry for the elderly couple, who were like grandparents to him, was foremost in his heart. Monsieur Vieaux couldn't endure the strain of his work anymore. What would become of the Vieauxs without Siroc there to help? How would they support themselves? Even with the help of their friends, they couldn't manage this farm by themselves. How would Siroc earn a living if he left, for that matter? He hadn't given much—any---thought to where he'd go, to any sort of profession, once his days of studying were completed.

Inspiration came to him at once. "Rooms in Guierre are quite scarce at the moment. You could rent the room off the barn—my old room---for almost what my parents have paid you each week."

"I could at that," Vieaux agreed.

Siroc drummed his fingers on the tabletop, the pace of the nervous tapping increasing in pace as his mind started racing. "Respectfully, Monsieur, I doubt you will be able to keep up with the workload after I've gone. You'll need to hire someone---hmm, but I suppose their wages would cost almost as much as you'd receive in rent for the room."

"True," the older man humored him.

"Perhaps the simplest solution would be to forgo the price of renting the room and accept labor as barter for board…then you could keep all the profit from your business and avoid the burden of wages."

Vieaux nodded, "Perhaps."

"You would still find yourself short on money each month…" Siroc fell silent again, as if seriously considering the matter. "You have a fine laboratory, but I suppose there will be a few hours each day when it will sit unused---you do need to sleep at some point…"

"As if you were one to talk," Vieaux teased.

"I think renting the laboratory is the only answer…sharing time, if you would, with another inventor. I'm sure there's an inventor in need of access to such a fine workspace would be willing to pay a fair price for the use of your facilities."

Vieaux hid his grin by taking another sip from his cup. "I'm sure."

Siroc's fingers abruptly ceased their drumming. "Well, then, it seems perfectly clear that you need only to find an inventor willing to barter labor for board and to pay a bit for the use of your laboratory, and you'll have all your financial matters resolved."

"I would at that."

"Then, it's fortunate that I'm an inventor willing to barter labor for board and to pay a bit for use of a fine laboratory. It's settled." The teenager rose from the table. "And as daylight is now wasting, I'd best get to it."

Again, Vieaux stopped him before he could reach the door. "Siroc?"

Siroc stopped. The elder man also rose from his chair and walked over to the younger man. Vieaux reached into Siroc's coat pocket and withdrew the parchment with Cecily's name and address written on it. "Work tomorrow. Today…go 'fix a carriage'."

**_Present Day_**

"He was ill?" Jacqueline deduced. When he didn't answer, she prompted, "Siroc?"

There was no warning this time as Siroc's knees buckled and he collapsed, dragging her to the ground with him. Jacqueline was grateful that they landed side-by-side. Unable to break his own fall, Siroc would have probably crushed her if he'd fallen on top of her. She untangled herself from him, kneeled, and again shook his good shoulder. There was not a hint of response from the still figure.

Truly alarmed now, she hurriedly loaded the third shot into the pistol and fired into the air one last time.


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer: The characters aren't mine, they're Dan Angel's, Billy Brown's, and PAX TV's, except for Monsieur Vieaux, Cecily, Bastelier, the doctor, Jeanette, Francois, Madame Vieaux, and my throwaway villains. All inventions mentioned herein are real, you can look them up if you want._ _Still tacky/campy, intentionally anachronistic, and historically iffy. Deal with it. ;-) Still rated teen reader and up for owies, angst, mild language, and action-type violence. Still not profiting except in kind readers from this. Still hope you enjoy it ;-)_

**3**

All Roads Lead to Paris

"…and so, comforted in the knowledge that our brother is now in the hands of our heavenly Father, we commit his body to the Earth in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. Amen."

The funeral was a small affair. As the priest completed his prayer, those few gathered at the quiet, hillside cemetery filed slowly past the casket, laying roses on it or stopping to lay one hand on the lid in farewell. A few women sniffed or dabbed at their eyes with handkerchiefs. Even the sounds of the hillside were subdued---there had not been the twitter of a bird or the rustle wind in the grass to disturb the proceedings. One-by-one, the mourners made their way down the hillside, back to waiting horses, wagons, and carriages and began their journey back to their homes and their lives, until only three remained. The two men stood back a respectful distance as the woman approached the casket to add her rose to the pile.

"He told me once that when he died, he should prefer to be buried beneath his laboratory so if the Lord saw fit to send his spirit back to Earth, it could spend the hereafter in his second favorite place in this world. His humor was a bit wanting for taste sometimes." Madame Vieaux dabbed at her own eyes with a handkerchief. "I expect I'll have some explaining to do when I see him again for not honoring his request." Finally, she turned away from the coffin to face the teenager who was standing a discreet distance to allow her privacy. Siroc had tried to keep a rein on his own grief, to be strong for the elderly woman's sake, but she knew that, like herself, he had cried until he had no tears left to offer.

The year since Siroc and Vieaux had sat together at the dining table, negotiating room and board over tea, had been a difficult one for both of them…more difficult than the teenager had ever imagined. Siroc's days---if possible---had become all the busier when he took on responsibility for Vieaux's business and attempted to earn extra money to pay him for the use of the laboratory. The teenager had discovered what Vieaux had told him the first day they met was true---there was little call for a scientist or philosopher among the common population of Guierre. Work was difficult to come by. Families seeking tutors or schools seeking professors turned their noses up at the young scientist, preferring older and more reputable instructors, and only a very few would pay for the occasional tutoring (then only if they were desperate).

Therefore, Siroc spent his days at his routine of mending anything in Guierre that needed mending. Before sunset, he would return to the Vieauxs, tend to the ancient Gaston, and then rush to wolf down dinner while running back to the city for whatever work he'd secured for the week. He was still surviving on four hours sleep, only now it was by necessity than the drive to spend time in the laboratory.

Madame Vieaux was still quite resolute in her intent to make the teenager take care of himself. After a thorough scolding when she discovered the boy was skipping dinner in his haste not to be late for his evening jobs, she'd taken up the habit of packing dinner into a small metal pail. No matter what time Siroc raced home from his day's work, the elderly woman was waiting, pail in hand, in front of the barn when he arrived at the farm.

He looked forward to Sundays---his only day of respite. After seeing the Vieauxs safely to church and home again, the day was his. In fact, his tendency to hide himself away in the laboratory on Sundays, cramming a week's worth of ideas for inventions into a short twelve hours, drove poor Cecily to distraction. She'd taken quickly to ambushing him on his way home from the day's work during the week, professing a need for a ride back to her own home, as a way of spending time with him.

It had been very early that Sunday morning (or very late that Saturday night) when the knock had come on the laboratory door. He'd been awake, naturally, already elbow-deep in the projects he meant to accomplish on his only day off. A kind woman who had offered him temporary work cleaning up her boarding house had inadvertently inspired that evening's bit of innovation. She'd happened upon the teenager while he was putting one of his creations to the test. Siroc had been bored with dragging her heavy rugs into the alley to beat the dust out of them, so he had improvised a cloth, coated in epoxy, which would pick the surface dirt off the carpets. Kneeling on the carpets with the cloth was no less backbreaking, so Siroc had wrapped the cloth around the bristles of a broom instead.

The innkeeper had frowned at his 'carpet sweeper'. "And what about soil that has been tromped in---how can that broom of yours get it out?"

Siroc hadn't considered that, but his mind went to work on the problem at once. That had been Saturday morning. Before the sun rose on Sunday, Siroc had rigged a hollow tube, a bag, and pieces of blacksmith bellows into a device that he thought might create suction that would lift the dirt out of the rugs. Unfortunately, the contraption came apart during the first test, and the hollow tube detached itself from the bag and bellows—creating a cloud of dust---and went sailing right through the laboratory window. _Well, that was predictable…_

Siroc expected that the knock on the door was Monsieur Vieaux, come to inspect the damage and make sure his former pupil had not injured himself. He must surely have heard the shattering of the glass. Instead, he found Madame Vieaux standing on the other side of the door. Her red eyes and the slightest of trembles in her hand told the teenager all he needed to know.

"I have no use for the laboratory." Madame Vieaux took the teenager's arm as Siroc escorted her from the quiet cemetery to the carriage waiting for her. "He'd hate for it to go to waste. He'd want them put to use…the books, the tools, all of it…he'd want _you_ to put them to use, Siroc. You were always his favorite student and his dearest friend---and that's saying quite a bit." Her eyes sought the man standing beside the waiting carriage. She nodded to the man. "I've sold the house. My nephew and his wife have asked me to stay with them, and I've accepted." Her nervousness showed only in the barest tightening of her grip on the teenager's arm. "What about you. What will you do, Siroc?"

"I don't know. Return home, I suppose."

Madame Vieaux was silent for a minute, collecting her thoughts. She stopped halfway to the carriage and stared at the horizon below and the road that stretched and disappeared over the horizon---the road that lead to a large city that could not quite be seen from the vantage of the hillside: Paris. "I wish you'd reconsider that, dear boy," she said. "Gilbert told me once that being my husband and your mentor were the two finest privileges the Lord had given him in this world. So, listen to an old woman: Your 'home' is that way---behind you. Whatever the Lord has in mind, I know He didn't intend for you to live a life of waiting tables and mending fences and wagon wheels. You'll only discover what He has planned for you by moving forward." For emphasis, she pointed to the horizon, indicating the city that lay not far beyond it.

"Paris?" the teenager asked.

"Paris." She smiled. "It would be a sin to stand before the Lord and tell Him that you squandered the gifts that he gave you---especially since Gilbert is up there telling Him all about you now…"

**_Present Day_**

"Anyone! _Help_!"

The force of her shout had been almost painful. Jacqueline had yelled with every fiber of her being, the cry echoing even louder and farther than the crack of the shot she'd just fired, and still, no one appeared in answer. _Confound it…_ Jacqueline glanced skyward. _If you're watching, I would appreciate some help,_ she pleaded with her father, with Monsieur Vieaux, or any other angels who would listen to her pleas.

Thunder answered. She wondered if it might be a response from a deity angry with such an insolent prayer…until she realized it wasn't thunder at all.

It was hoof beats.

Jacqueline was on her feet at once, whirling in search until she spied the riders approaching. Instead of the black uniforms of her and Siroc's attackers, the two riders bearing down on them now wore familiar gray overcoats. She knew those horses and their riders. Gazing skyward again, Jacqueline said aloud: "Never thought those two would be the answer to a prayer, but thank you."

"Jacque?" D'Artagnan reached them first, with Ramon only a few paces behind. She'd never been so grateful to see anyone.

Instantly sizing up the situation, both vaulted from their mounts before the horses could come to a full stop. Ramon raced to the unconscious figure and quickly checked Siroc's injury. The Spaniard let out a curse that would have embarrassed a sailor. He gestured to D'Artagnan, and the Frenchman kneeled to help lift Siroc into a sitting position. "What happened?" D'Artagnan asked Jacqueline.

"Our friends from the chapel. Lead us right into an ambush."

D'Artagnan's mouth drew into a grim line. "Why?" His eyes and Ramon's blazed in a level of ferocity Jacqueline had never seen from either of them in their short time together. She was certain the same fury must be in her own eyes. It had been there once before for her father, and during her time among the Musketeers, these three men in particular were becoming just as much a family to her as he had been.

"The pyramid. They took it."

D'Artagnan's eyes widened a bit---whether because of the mention of the pyramid or the fact that Jacqueline knew about it, she didn't know.

Ramon showed no reaction to the mention of the stone. His attention was focused on his friend. The cloth wrapped around Siroc's shoulder was soaked, so Ramon laid a clean handkerchief over top of the old bandage and pressed hard with his palm to staunch the flow. At the pressure on the injury, Siroc's eyes finally snapped open and he let out a curse that rivaled the Spaniard's. Siroc reflexively grabbed at the hand causing the pain and might have actually succeeded in pulling Ramon's hand away if he'd had his normal strength.

"He needs to go---now," Ramon said. To the blonde Musketeer, he added, "Are you ready?"

Groggily, Siroc wondered why people kept asking him that when they obviously intended to lug him all over the countryside whether he was 'ready' or not. He knew an answer of some sort was expected, so he managed to nod and gritted his teeth as Ramon and D'Artagnan lifted him to his feet. Between the two of them, D'Artagnan and Ramon maneuvered Siroc towards Ramon's horse. Siroc grimaced---there was no chance that bouncing around on a horse with a bullet in his shoulder would be a happy experience…

"Where are they now?" D'Artagnan asked Jacqueline.

She knew who 'they' were. "Long gone…all except the dead one. Siroc wanted me to go after them, but---"

"Thank you for not listening to him," D'Artagnan said.

Ramon climbed onto the horse, hanging on to Siroc to keep his friend from falling off in his unsteady state. "Go after them now." He saw hesitation, indecision, in both D'Artagnan and Jacqueline's faces as both warred with the desire to stay with their injured friend and their wish to hunt down those responsible. "You know you have to, D'Artagnan. I've got him. _Go_," Ramon snapped, deciding for them both. He touched his heel to the horse, and the animal tore away in the direction of Paris, leaving D'Artagnan and Jacqueline standing in the clearing.

The bouncing and the spectacular bursts of pain each jolt caused would not allow Siroc the luxury of blacking out. Blearily, he opened his eyes just enough to see that they had already reached the main road leading into Paris. This section of the road was terrible---full of ruts and holes from years of horses and wagons wearing it down. Siroc had been bounced around on this wretched path since his first day in Paris…

**_Paris, Five Years Earlier_**

It was a wonder the cart didn't shake itself to pieces—the thing was more rickety and worn than the wagon Monsieur Vieaux and Siroc had used for so many years in their work. Each time a wheel hit a rut, Siroc was almost pitched from the back of the cart. The last jolt had caused one of his crates to break apart. A jar rolled from the crate, and Siroc only just managed to catch it before it could hit another trunk and shatter.

"Pardon, Monsieur," the driver apologized cheerfully. "The road is quite bad."

Siroc wondered if the man would have such good humor if he deducted breakage from the driver's fee.

He had fallen asleep on the long ride from Guierre to Paris, so Siroc was mildly surprised to wake and see the buildings on the horizon so soon. The driver pointed to the skyline. "Paris, Monsieur. Where did you say Monsieur Bastelier lives?"

Siroc had to dig through pockets crammed with notes to find the paper with the address Madame Vieaux had given him. "32 Boulevard Treadeau."

"Trudeau?" The driver raised an eyebrow.

The smirk on the man's face made the teenager nervous. "You know it?"

Now, the driver was stifling a laugh. "Oui, Monsieur."

A quarter-hour later, Siroc found out for himself why the man had sniggered at the mention of the boulevard. Having rolled past what only could have been prostitutes, thieves, and drunks through the most unsavory section of any city Siroc had ever seen, the wagon rolled to a stop in a building as decrepit as its surroundings. 32 Boulevard Trudeau was a theater, with a sign promising 'wine, women, and song' displayed prominently on the main entrance.

"Trudeau?" Siroc asked the driver.

The driver was having a great laugh at the teenager's expense. "Trudeau."

Monsieur Bastelier was a man decaying nearly as fast as the boulevard and theater. Nearly toothless, with gray hair covering every visible inch of him (including his ears and nose), and stinking of wine and lack of use of a washbasin, Siroc could have found the man by smell alone.

"I only reserved such a large space for you because Monsieur Vieaux was such a good teacher," he grunted, leading Siroc down into what seemed to have once been a wine cellar. There was a door that lead into the alley, so Siroc wouldn't have to enter via the theater. That was a relief, at least. Someone had punched a hole into the wall to make room for a window---which offered the view of a sidewalk above the small room and the alley outside. The walls were barely high enough to allow Siroc to stand upright. Music from the theater was causing the walls to vibrate.

"Large?" Siroc asked.

Bastelier glowered. "Large for so little rent." He tone defied the boy to argue.

"It's fine, Monsieur…" Except for the fact that a man had just staggered into the alley, stopped outside Siroc's window, and—from his stance---could only be relieving himself on the wall outside. Siroc had never seen such behavior in his life.

"I'd keep the window closed if I was you," Bastelier shrugged. "Rent is due."

He held out his palm. Siroc had to put down the bags he was carrying to fish money from his pocket. Bastelier took the coins, biting each one to be sure it was good. "Don't make any noise," he ordered, giving the teenager one more distrustful stare before lumbering out of the room.

"You'll hardly know I'm here, Monsieur," Siroc promised.

The teenager stared at the hovel and sighed. He had no idea how he would fit all his belongings and a bed and a table into the room. "Boulevard Trudeau," he muttered.

**_Present Day_**

"…Trudeau…" Ramon heard the whisper from his friend.

"Trudeau?" Ramon remembered that place. Siroc had lived there when he and D'Artagnan had met the blonde. It was a cesspool and that room of his had been a hovel by any standards…

**_Boulevard Trudeau, Five Years Earlier_**

Siroc's second encounter with the Musketeers came the day after the accident with the thieves and the discovery of the pyramid.

Finding work in Paris was no less daunting than finding employment in Guierre. Madame Vieaux had mentioned that the Prince himself was in need of a tutor in the sciences, but Siroc could not so much as set a foot into the castle, must less apply for the job. Presenting himself as a professor of the sciences hadn't merited so much as a blink from the palace guards. They'd all but accused him of forging the credentials from Monsieur Vieaux, and since Siroc wasn't of a mind to test his fencing skills against the finest soldiers of France (save for the Musketeers), he was forced to admit defeat. Nor was anyone else in France inclined to have their child's education entrusted to someone so young and with almost no teaching experience.

The day after the incident with the thieves, Siroc found himself relieved of a blacksmith's job that he'd held for just three days. Rounding the corner off Trudeau, Siroc saw the Spanish Musketeer in the alley just outside the door. He was deep in conversation with one of the dancing girls from the theater (Jean, Jeanette, something like that), rattling off some sort of poem while she listened in rapt---if perplexed---attention. Neither saw the inventor approaching.

"That was beautiful…it rhymed," Jeanette purred. "What did it mean?"

It wasn't the reaction Ramon had anticipated. Siroc resisted the urge to suggest the Musketeer try a limerick next time instead.

"It's a poem…about Ancient Greece. About a man who loved a woman so much that when the God Hades took her to the underworld, he went down there to bring her home."

The dancing girl melted a bit. "Really? How romantic…"

Siroc cleared his throat. He wasn't one bit interested in their flirting, but they were standing directly in front of his door.

The girl whirled. "Siroc? What are you doing here?" Jeanette snapped. "Bastelier will put you on the street if you've lost another job. I've heard him say so. You lost your job, didn't you?"

Wrapped up in her scolding, it didn't immediately dawn on her that Siroc was holding a piece of cloth against his forehead. Ramon asked first, "What happened to your head?"

"What did you blow up this time?" the girl added.

Already nursing a splitting headache before Jeanette had begun her tirade, Siroc reminded himself that it wouldn't be gallant at all to test his fencing skills on a woman---in particular one whose attire left no room to imagine that she was hiding any weapon with which to defend herself. The Musketeer took pity on the young man and gently urged the woman to step aside so that Siroc could get to his door. The kid looked harried enough…and Ramon's new lady friend was becoming less attractive to the Spaniard by the minute. Siroc ducked into his hovel and slammed the door behind him.

"Perhaps, Monsieur Bastelier doesn't need to know about this…?" Ramon turned on the charm, offering Jeanette a smile and kissing her hand for good measure.

The suggestion seemed only to confuse her. "But, I'm supposed to tell him…"

"A mouth that lovely," Ramon brushed one finger across her lips, "should be speaking in poetry instead of gossip."

That did the trick. She forgot all about the blonde and gazed in adoration at the Musketeer. "I have to go back to work. Come by after the show tonight?"

"Maybe," he said, all the while thinking, _Not a chance._ Still, Ramon watched as she strode back down the alley towards the theater door. Caught up in the view, he almost forgot why he'd come to Boulevard Trudeau to begin with. He knocked on Siroc's door. "Hello? Siroc? I need to speak to you."

It took a few more knocks to get him to open his door, and he didn't look to appreciate the interruption. "Remember me? Thieves? Toxic clouds?" Ramon asked pleasantly. "A word, please?"

Eventually, Siroc stepped aside so Ramon could enter the small room beneath the theater. The first thing the Musketeer noticed was that the room still smelled of that odd smoke that had incapacitated the thieves the night before. He tried not to inhale any more deeply than was necessary to breathe. Ramon studied the room. It was cramped, filled to its limited capacity with tools and jars and books and strange powders. The shelves were lined with all sorts of handmade gadgets and gizmos. There was no living area at all---the furnishings consisted of a tabletop, suspended from the wall by chains, a stool, and a bed that was hidden beneath the tabletop. It would seem work was more important to Siroc than comfort. It looked like the home of an inventor or the lair of an insane scientist. Ramon wondered which description fit the blonde.

"Don't get out much, do you?" Ramon asked.

Busy dabbing at the cut on his forehead, Siroc only frowned in answer.

"Are you all right, there?" Ramon pointed to the cut.

"I'm fine."

Ramon walked over to the shelves for a closer look at the strange assortment of objects collected there. "Does that cut have anything to do with you losing your job?"

The Musketeer was poking and prying around Siroc's inventions, which caused the scientist no small amount of annoyance. Hadn't the man any concept of privacy? "No. Yes. A horse threw a shoe." Siroc forgot about the cut and rushed to retrieve an important model that Ramon had begun playing with as a child would a toy.

Undeterred, Ramon moved on to the next shelf. "Ah. You were fired because you didn't nail the shoe on properly."

"I didn't use nails. I invented an epoxy to hold the shoe in place." Siroc was following him around the room, taking bottles and jars and gadgets from Ramon as fast as Ramon could pick them up to examine them.

_So it was 'inventor' and not 'insane scientist'…at least for the time being._ Ramon mentally filed that bit of information away for future reference. "I guess that's why they use nails---so the shoes don't fly off and hit people in the head and get them fired."

Siroc took offense at the suggestion that his epoxy had failed. "It most certainly did not come off. If you insist on knowing, the rider did this."

Ramon paused, mid-reach for a bottle. "Why?" He wondered if it would be necessary for the Musketeers to find the rider and explain that a loose shoe was no cause for beating a blacksmith-inventor.

"Because the shoe wouldn't come off," Siroc answered.

"I'll bet that makes sense in inventor world." Ramon went right back to poking through the assortment of gadgets and models. A peculiar piece of what looked like burned and twisted porcelain displayed on a table drew his eye. He picked it up, examining it closely, trying to fathom what it could possibly be. "What _is_ this?"

"That's what remains of the chamber pot from last night," Siroc informed him, feeling just the slightest bit of evil glee when the Musketeer yelped and dropped the wrecked basin as if it had burned him. Ramon wiped his hands on his coat, but cheerfully went right to the next item on the shelves. "How long have you been in Paris?"

"A few weeks. Did you say----"

"And you're an inventor?"

"Yes…"

"Then why waste time gluing horses' feet? I'm sure the Prince would be interested in---" Ramon picked up a model from the shelf and tried to find a word to describe it. "What _is_ this?"

"Submersible. It's a boat that travels underwater, and trust me, the Prince is not remotely interested in my creations." Siroc wasn't going to share the story about his one and only attempt at finding work in the royal court with the Musketeer.

Ramon could not picture that. He tossed the toy back to the inventor just to enjoy the spilt-second of panic as the kid dove to catch it. "Wouldn't it leak?" The inventor pointedly replaced the model submersible on the shelf. "Sorry, I'm sure it's a very nice submersible."

Exasperated now, Siroc prompted: "Well, thank you for the support, I'll make sure you have a seat on the maiden voyage…did you say you needed a word?"

"Yes. You recall our unconscious friends from last night? One of the artifacts they stole from the Prince is still missing, and since this was the only spot where they---er---stopped, I wondered if you might have come across it in the alley? It's a large stone of some sort. Pumice or something from an old volcano in Italy. He only just received it as a birthday gift from an admirer." Ramon rolled his eyes a bit. "I don't think the Prince cares about it beyond the notion that it's _his_ old volcano pumice-rock-artifact-thing and 'how dare someone abscond with it'."

"Sounds rather unremarkable for a gift---unless geology is a hobby of the Prince's?" Siroc observed.

"Not that I know of."

For some reason---Siroc labeled it 'scientific curiosity' in thinking back on it later---the inventor was reluctant to part with the pyramid. There wasn't a hint of deception in Ramon's features---he was either an accomplished liar or he was sincerely of the belief that the rock was nothing more than old lava spewings. If Ramon didn't know what was in the rock then either the Prince didn't know or he knew and wasn't telling. Siroc still had yet to figure out what it was or where it had come from, beyond knowing that it was definitely _not_ pumice…ancient or otherwise…but the scenarios of what the pyramid could do that were playing in Siroc's mind intrigued him and unsettled him at the same time. If someone had unknowingly sent it to the Prince, the potential for disaster was disturbing.

And if someone had _knowingly_ sent it to the Prince, the potential for disaster was terrifying. It meant someone intended for the pyramid to be used. Who? For what? To what end? And wasn't that all the more reason to hand it over to the Musketeer? Thwarting disasters for the royal family was their duty, not his. Siroc couldn't very well keep it just for his own selfish reasons…besides which, it was ingrained into Siroc not to lie, especially not to a representative of the royal family.

Which was why he surprised himself with his answer to Ramon's question.

For his part, Ramon read the lie in the inventor's eyes even before Siroc replied: "I can't say that I've seen it, but I promise to keep my eyes open."

Ramon kept his facial expression neutral while he debated what to do next. The kid was eccentric, to be sure, and he needed to get out of the laboratory once in awhile, but he wasn't a bad guy. Ramon could sense that much, and he trusted his intuition. Maybe in eccentric inventor world old volcano rocks were worth a trip to the dungeons, but Ramon didn't want to be the one to put him there. Unless the guy was a lot tougher than first impressions would suggest, Siroc wouldn't last five minutes with the Prince's interrogators. How the kid had lasted this long in Trudeau, Ramon couldn't imagine. In the grand total of ten minutes he'd known Siroc, the kid had been assaulted by unhappy customers and almost gassed himself to death in a chamber pot mishap. No, Ramon didn't want to arrest him at all…but it was still his duty to retrieve the Prince's property, and he hadn't been able to find the stone by thumbing through the shelves. He was running out of excuses to poke around the laboratory without calling the kid a liar.

_Maybe there was another way…_

"No harm in asking," Ramon played along for now. "Sorry to bother you, then. Good evening."

Relief at being rid of the Musketeer lasted only the five-minute interval between when Ramon finally left the laboratory and when the door swung open again. Before Siroc knew what was happening, the Spaniard had returned, caught the inventor by the collar, and almost dragged him up the stairs and into the alley. Siroc was sure the Musketeer knew he'd lied about the pyramid and meant to haul him to the dungeons. Instead, casually as if they were old friends, Ramon put a hand on the inventor's shoulder and guided him in the direction of the main boulevard, talking Siroc's ear off the entire way: "I think you have three good reasons—no, four---for celebration…and you're in need of a better introduction to Paris, not that your dancer friend wasn't, um, charming…" Ramon rolled his eyes a bit at that.

"Pardon me?" Fine, then, he wasn't being arrested for now…but the passing fear that he was now being abducted by a raving madman crossed Siroc's mind.

Ramon counted, "First: you're recent arrival in Paris. Second: our capture, with your assistance, of those thieves last night. Third: your impending invention of that underwater…what did you call it?"

"Submersible."

"Yes, that. Fourth: your freedom from gluing horses feet for a living."

_A madman, no question about it. _"Celebrate poverty and unemployment and imminent eviction from my home?" Siroc asked.

Ramon shook his head. "Now, that's no way to look at it. Celebrate the…first day of the rest of your life."

"How insightful, we'll have to write that expression down…maybe on bits of parchment stuck in desert cookies…"

**_Present Day_**

The alacrity with which the people of the city spread news (rumor, fact, or bald-faced gossip) came in useful at times: If you were a Musketeer, galloping a horse at break-neck pace through the streets with a wounded comrade in tow, the word would travel faster than the horse could run. One could be sure that—even if you didn't witness them doing so---one or more persons would deliver word to friends, neighbors, family…and to the nearest doctor…as fast as they could.

So, it was no surprise that Ramon found every Musketeer not on patrols that morning waiting by the time he reined his horse to a stop in front of the barracks. A dozen pairs of hands were waiting to help ease Siroc from the horse, and their Captain was front and center. Duvall's face was a thundercloud. "God, what happened? Ramon?"

"I don't…" Now that the urgency of getting Siroc home was over, now that he'd done all he could do to help save his friend, Ramon could feel the same worry, fear, and anger he saw in the Captain's face crashing down on him. He slid down from the horse, surprised to find his legs weren't too steady. "I don't know."

Duvall didn't accept that. "What do you mean you don't know? _Report_!"

That authoritative tone penetrated the shock threatening. "Siroc and Jacque were ambushed in the forest…D'Artagnan and Jacque are trying to pick up their trail now… the same men who took Adam and the other children." It didn't seem possible, but the mention of the men who'd abducted his nephew made the captain's infuriated expression all the more grim.

"Why?"

The younger man still had the presence of mind to remember that this was a subject best not broached in such a public place. "Volcanic pumice," Ramon answered. The captain fully comprehended the cryptic answer and let the subject drop…but only for the moment.

Ramon snapped out of his momentary stupor and joined the captain, who was personally helping carry Siroc into the barracks. Between the two of them, they moved Siroc into his quarters in the barracks, with the other Musketeers opening doors and moving the cluttered laboratory worktable and few chairs out of their path. Ramon heard the inventor breathe a sigh of protest as his bottles and books were knocked over in the process.

The Spaniard was not at all surprised to find a doctor already waiting in the room. He barely waited for Duvall and Ramon to settle the injured man onto the bunk before shooing them out of his way. "Wait outside," he ordered.

Neither Ramon nor Duvall had any intentions of leaving. The captain obliged by closing the door and the shutters to the crowd gathered around. He barked a command for the rest of the Musketeers to go help D'Artagnan and Jacque. They'd do no good gawking, milling around, and getting under foot while the doctor worked. As for Ramon, he gave the doctor a glare and instead helped ease Siroc out of the bulky, bloodied overcoat. Laying the coat on the table, Ramon found something else they were going to need---the stick that Siroc used for measuring.

The doctor noticed that his orders had not been completely followed. "I said, wait outside."

Ramon walked back to the bunk. He held up the thick measuring stick, snapped it in half with his bare hands, and gave the medic a glare that said: _I can do the same thing to you just as easily._

Siroc's eyes opened at the sound of more breakage. He searched out the source of the noise and spied the broken tool in Ramon's hands. "Is that my measuring stick!" he mustered the strength to complain.

The Spaniard knelt at the head of the bunk and held one of the halves under the inventor's nose. "Bite," Ramon instructed. Being in no condition to fight about it, Siroc bit down on the stick as ordered, but from the petulant look his friend's face, Ramon knew he was going to catch hell about breaking the measuring stick when Siroc was better.

"This is your last chance to leave. I have to get that bullet out of his shoulder, and it won't be pl---" the doctor tried again, giving up when Duvall moved to the foot of the bunk. The captain got a good grip on Siroc's feet while, still at the head of the bunk, Ramon held on to the inventor's arms as best he could without getting in the medic's way.

"It's for your own good, Doctor," Ramon explained, "He's much tougher than he looks…"

**_Paris, Five Years Earlier_**

"…and in any case,as my friend here was explaining, nothing happened and there's certainly no need for any unpleasantness about it…"

Ramon had no idea if his words were making an impression on the giant, very upset, man standing in front of him…mostly because he was nose to chest with the behemoth. He had attempted to look up at the man's face, but could see nothing from this vantage point except nose hair…to say nothing of the fact that leaning his head back to gaze upwards subjected him to the man's foul breath, which was making Ramon's eyes water even worse than the blue chamber pot smoke.

The man was gripping Ramon beneath the arms, holding him several inches above the floor, and what was the most disquieting was the fact that the giant had had Siroc hanging on his back, arms in a tight hold around the man's thick neck, for the past five minutes and the inventor's weight and the chokehold was doing nothing to persuade him to set the Musketeer down. The rest of the crowd that had been gathered in the second floor sitting room had fled for their lives the minute the bellowing giant set foot in the room…including the woman he was seeking.

Ramon tried again, "…I was only sharing some poetry with the mademoiselle..."

The giant growled like an angry bear.

"…I mean the _Madame_…" Ramon corrected.

The behemoth's grip intensified and, with another roar, he hefted Ramon higher into the air. Ramon noticed, now that he was looking down on the man's face, that the view from above was no more pleasant than the view from below.

Siroc, however, saw an opportunity. Raising his arms above his head had left the giant's underarms exposed. The inventor balled one hand into a fist, aimed, and punched the hulking man in an especially delicate spot near the armpit. The blow had the desired effect---the air rushed from the man's lungs and, suddenly more worried about drawing a breath due to the punch and Siroc's grip on his neck, he dropped Ramon.

The Musketeer grinned at the blonde man. "What'd you do to him?"

"Basic anatomy…there's a weak spot beneath---uh-oh…"

The giant had regained his breath in a cry of mindless rage. Ramon didn't have time to even draw his sword as he tried to scramble out of the way. The angry man lashed out with one large palm and grabbed the Spaniard by his face. Ramon saw only fingers, but felt himself being dragged across the room, hefted into the air by his face and his belt, and then the giant let go and Ramon was flying…rather, he was falling…falling a very long way. Now that his vision was unobstructed, Ramon had a clear view of a wooden roof coming to meet him very, very quickly…

He covered his face with his arms just a second before he crashed through the roof and landed in something soft.

_Hay._ Ramon realized he had just been thrown from the sitting room window through the roof of a barn or livery and had landed in a pile of hay. Seconds later, there was a shout from the direction of the window and Siroc crashed through the roof and landed beside the Musketeer. It took a minute for either of them to grasp that they'd survived the fall, much less sufficiently recover to speak.

Siroc found his voice first. "…and I thought we had a bad reception at the café when you tried to find a rhyme for 'China'…" The inventor studied the holes they'd made in the roof and the window they'd been pitched out of…way above them. "Do you think he knew there was a haystack beneath that window?"

"There's always a chance." Ramon pushed himself to his feet, overjoyed that his legs still worked and no bones felt broken, and brushed himself off. He'd be picking hay out of places he didn't want to think about later. "I owe D'Artagnan an apology—it really _is_ easy not to notice the ring when you're staring at such a pretty woman…"

The inventor made a face as he stumbled to his feet. "Maybe if you'd been looking at her hands and not her…do all your 'introductions to Paris' involve angry mobs and almost getting killed and fist fights and almost getting killed and angrier husbands and almost getting killed and…what _were_ those people going to do with those chickens?"

Ramon shrugged, regaining his usual cheerfulness. "I usually need to bring D'Artagnan along to run into the angry husbands but otherwise…you did all right back there." The inventor was still looking a bit sour about the whole 'falling from the window' thing. "…Well, have you forgotten about 'poverty and unemployment and imminent homelessness'?"

"Yes. Congratulations."

"How did you kill a Saturday evening in Guierre then?" Ramon asked.

"I never spent them wrestling men the size of a small house if that's what you're asking," Siroc answered.

The Musketeer grinned. "Stick with me."

"_Me laisser à lui!_" A familiar roar made the wooden barn shake…the roar and the sudden pounding of fixed against its locked doors. Siroc and Ramon didn't need to ask who was trying to break the doors down.

"Back door," Ramon said, dragging the inventor along as he retreated to the back of the barn.

Siroc searched. "There is no back door."

He was right---there was no back door, but Ramon did spy a woodpile in the corner of the barn. Their ticket out of the barn was lying by the logs. He picked up an axe and handed it to Siroc with a grin.

"Invent one," Ramon suggested. He took up a large mallet and set an example by smashing through the planks that formed the rear wall.

_What have I gotten myself into?_ Siroc mused.


	3. Chapter 3

_Disclaimer: The characters aren't mine, they're Dan Angel's, Billy Brown's, and PAX TV's, except for Monsieur Vieaux, Cecily, Bastelier, the doctor, Jeanette, Francois, Madame Vieaux, and my throwaway villains. All inventions mentioned herein are real, you can look them up if you want._ _Still tacky/campy, intentionally anachronistic, and historically iffy. Again,blame the internet translators if my French is wrong or misspelled. I apologize if it is, butI'm kind of at their mercy, not speaking the language myself. Still rated teen reader and up for owies, angst, mild language, and action-type violence. Still not profiting except in kind readers from this. Still hope you enjoy this, silliness notwithstanding J_

**4**

Conspiracy and Volcanic Pumice

**_Present Day_**

It was a testament to how serious he was about the situation, Jacqueline thought, that D'Artagnan hadn't bothered with so much as one suggestive remark about having to ride double with her. Under any other circumstances, he'd have pestered her no end with innuendos in such close quarters. With her direction, she and D'Artagnan found their way back to the spot where she and Siroc had been ambushed. The black rider's body still lay where it had fallen. D'Artagnan reined the horse to a halt and climbed down, heading straight to the body. Jacqueline started searching for the tracks from the other riders.

"There are fresh tracks over here. This was the direction they went." She pointed to the south.

D'Artagnan nodded. "Then that's the way we'll go." He examined the corpse of the rider. "This man's been in Siroc's laboratory."

Jacqueline raised an eyebrow. "Siroc told me he thought someone had been in there. How do you know it was that man?"

D'Artagnan had pulled off one of the rider's black gloves. He held up the man's arm for her to see. The man's hands were tinted bright, unnatural red. "Siroc's 'alarm'. When he's got something he doesn't want disturbed, touched, or stolen, he keeps it in a drawer coated with powder that turns this red when it gets into the skin. Siroc said it would be much easier to spot thieves if their hands were bright red. He was right. Of course, the day Ramon and I used his epoxy to stick all his tools to his worktable, Siroc did find a creative way to use this powder for retaliation."

Jacqueline would make a point of asking the inventor to tell her _that_ story. "Hands can be hidden. He should figure out a way to paint their faces instead," she said.

"I'll suggest it to him if…" D'Artagnan trailed off, sobering at his own slip of the tongue. "…later."

"He's going to be all right, D'Artagnan. You'll see," she said. He didn't share her certainty…doubt was there in his eyes. "I don't know Siroc as well as you and Ramon, but I do know that he'd consider dying a terrible imposition on valuable invention time. He'll be back at his inventions as soon as he's able to hold a quill in his hands."

He did smile, half-hearted, but he did smile at that.

She distracted him. "And Siroc didn't want that pyramid 'disturbed, touched, or stolen', I'm guessing?"

D'Artagnan didn't answer, but Jacqueline was right, of course. Siroc would have done whatever he had to in order to keep anyone from laying a finger on that pyramid…especially if he'd known someone was poking around its hiding place. But, why in God's name had Siroc done something so foolish as to bring the pyramid out here? That wasn't like him at all…

"I have to know what it is if I'm going to help you," Jacqueline continued.

There was no harm in telling her, but for one thing: D'Artagnan had been ordered to keep silent about the pyramid, even among the other Musketeers. Did that order apply now that she'd found out anyway? Before that day, only four people in the world had known that pyramid still existed…D'Artagnan, Ramon, Siroc, and Captain Duvall…or so D'Artagnan had thought. Evidently, that was not the case. Someone else had known about it---known about it and known where to find it. Few people were invited in to the Musketeers' barracks and almost no one set foot in Siroc's laboratory. Who would have known about the pyramid and known to search for it there?

**_Boulevard Trudeau_, _Paris, Five Years Earlier._**

It had seemed like a good plan at the time, especially as D'Artagnan and Ramon had improvised it in a mere five minutes. Ramon had returned from questioning Siroc about the Prince's missing birthday gift, stepping out of the alley onto the main street where D'Artagnan was waiting, and announced: "He said he doesn't have it."

"Does he have it?" D'Artagnan asked.

"Of course he does. The man's a terrible liar. Eyes give him away."

That was that as far as D'Artagnan had been concerned. "Then we'll see if the dungeons can refresh his memory." He'd taken a step towards the alley intent on arresting the inventor---pleasant fellow though he was---on the spot.

Ramon caught him by the arm, "Wait. Not yet…"

Siroc wasn't the only one whose eyes betrayed his thoughts---D'Artagnan could read the reason for the Spaniard's hesitation at once. "You like this guy, don't you? Ramon, have you ever met anyone you _didn't_ like?"

Ramon couldn't resist _that_ opening, "I didn't like _you_ when we met."

"That's hardly a fair comparison! If I had known about you and Annalise I never would have…it's not always easy to spot the ring, you know!"

"Especially if you don't look." Ramon pursed his lips, thinking. "It's just…I have a feeling about him. He's not a bad guy, D'Artagnan. Maybe there's a another way."

"We can't just let criminals go because we like them! We have our duty---"

"Yes, we have to get the Prince's toy back before he has a royal tantrum, I know. But we can do it without arresting Siroc."

Still not understanding, D'Artagnan nevertheless gave his friend the benefit of the doubt. "What do you want to do?"

Five hours later, D'Artagnan was regretting asking that question with all of his heart. Ramon got to spend an evening enjoying the taverns, cafes, and company of the ladies of Paris, and D'Artagnan got an evening of poking through the truly astounding amount of books, jars, powders, gadgets, gizmos, and other junk that Siroc had managed to squirrel away into the pillbox-sized room he called home. The only excitement in the Frenchman's evening were the ten false alarms when D'Artagnan had heard footsteps in the alley and tried without success to hide, thinking the inventor had returned, and trying to avoid gazing from the window with its view of every drunk and prostitute stumbling from the Theater Bastelier. All D'Artagnan had to show for it was inexplicably bright red hands…which, to his dismay, had left bright red handprints and smudges on every item and surface he'd touched._ Knew I shouldn't have taken off my gloves…_There was not a trace of the rock that Captain Duvall had sent him and Ramon to retrieve. _How could something so large disappear into such a tiny space as these quarters_?

D'Artagnan heard footsteps in the alley and retreated again to the only hiding place in the room—the space between the tabletop and the bed. Seconds later, he heard the sounds of retching in the alley right outside the window. He didn't dare look.

_Charming. This is a charming place he has here._

He was about the squeeze out from the cramped hiding spot when he heard more footsteps…these almost inaudible. Someone was trying to approach without being heard. Drunks would not worry about discretion and Siroc had no reason to sneak up on his own home. The soft footfalls stopped at the window. D'Artagnan had not lit the candles or lanterns, and he could clearly see the shadow of a man's torso as he leaned down to peer through the window…then the shadows of four pairs of legs. Then the men moved on, continuing down the alley until their footsteps paused outside Siroc's door.

D'Artagnan drew his sword, but stayed where he was.

The door creaked open. From his vantage point, D'Artagnan could easily see four men, dressed in the same black uniforms as the thieves who'd robbed the palace, make their way into the small room. Their swords were drawn.

"He's not here," one of them said. "Too bad." They sheathed their weapons. "Search."

The trio made no attempt to be delicate---they smashed their way through drawers and shelves and for good measured even opened the books and began ripping pages (as if there were any good to come of that). One stopped in the middle of rummaging through a shelf full of jars to gawk at the red smudges and handprints D'Artagnan had left. "Francois---look at this. What is it? Blood?"

'Francois' dabbed at the stains with his gloved finger. "Powder. Back to work!" He smacked the other man in the back of the head. The man dropped the jar he was holding. It rolled under the bunk. D'Artagnan cringed. _Great._

The second man rubbed his aching head, grumbling, "_Grognon_. _J'ai besoin d'un nouveau travail..._" He bent to retrieve the jar and found himself eye to eye with the Musketeer in hiding. "_Mon dieu! Francois!_"

The other two turned at the same instant D'Artagnan reacted. He put his feet on the bottom of the table and pushed upwards with all his might. Since the rider in black had been leaning down right beside the table at the time, the tabletop caught him beneath the chin and knocked him cold. _One down, three to go._

D'Artagnan scrambled off the bed just as the other three drew their weapons and advanced on him. He'd had worse odds, but not while cornered in such a confined space. Francois came at the Musketeer first. When D'Artagnan couldn't drive him back with his sword, he groped blindly on the shelf, grabbed the heaviest objects he could, and pitched them at his attackers. Gadgets and models that hadn't been wrecked by the men in black were now sufficiently trashed from D'Artagnan using them as projectiles, but the plan worked. Between ducking strikes from his sword and the flying objects he pitched their way, he drove them back enough that he could dash up the stairs and into the relatively larger space of the alley.

Two more riders in black were waiting in the alley.

'_Mon dieu' is right_, the Musketeer thought. The men in the alley gestured for D'Artagnan to step back into the room. With two swords pointed at his chest and three at his back, he had no choice about complying. Francois put his blade to D'Artagnan's throat.

"The pyramid," he demanded.

D'Artagnan had not the slightest idea what he was talking about. "The _what_?"

"Kill him," Francois ordered.

"What? You don't go from 'The pyramid' to 'Kill him'! I may know something! You're not going to even attempt an interrogation? What about asking a second time? Or a third? A few threats? A couple punches? Maybe breaking a finger or two? What kind of villains are you!" D'Artagnan protested.

The tirade sufficiently perplexed the group so that he was able to raise his sword and knock their blades away from his throat. D'Artagnan attempted to roll away from them, but forgetting the close quarters of the room (and the man in black lying unconscious from his encounter with the tabletop), he tripped over the prone form and ended up right back in the corner by the bunk with five masked men about to skewer him…

Siroc chose that moment to make his appearance. D'Artagnan saw him, but his attackers did not. The inventor walked into the room and stared at the wreckage of his laboratory in absolute horror. Focused on D'Artagnan, the five thieves failed to notice the new arrival until Siroc, spotting D'Artagnan's telltale red hands, snapped indignantly, "You've been in my drawers!"

"Pardon me?"

Still outraged at the destruction in his laboratory, the inventor picked up a stick the approximate length of a sword and used it to strike one of the intruders across the back of the skull. That man managed to trip up Francois while falling. The two of them nearly landed on D'Artagnan, who had already fallen over the first man he'd knocked out.

"I take it you were supposed to search my home while I was being dragged all across Paris?" Siroc added.

"You have the Prince's property," D'Artagnan accused him.

"If you're sure of that, then arrest me! Don't vent your suspicions on my laboratory!"

"Can I take care of one problem at a time!" D'Artagnan couldn't regain his feet trying to climb over the two unconscious men and Francois. "All right, there isn't enough room in here for a respectable fight," he said, "If we're going to continue, we should all step outside…"

The two men in black still standing faced off against Siroc. D'Artagnan was about to intervene on the inventor's behalf, but it appeared that Siroc was having no difficulties at all fending off his two attackers with only a measuring stick for a weapon.

Francois managed to untangle himself from the heap before D'Artagnan. The Musketeer used his sword to whack the man in black across the back of his legs and Francois tumbled back to the floor, this time almost bowling over the two men challenging Siroc. Siroc, meanwhile, was backing up the stairs, forcing his opponents to follow him out the door if they meant to keep up the fight. "This seems like a great deal of fuss for a piece of 'volcanic pumice', doesn't it?" the inventor baited them.

The fight spilled out into the alley---three men in black pursuing the inventor, Francois following his men, and D'Artagnan chasing Francois. The drunken theater patrons were chased from their places there for a second consecutive evening, this time due to the sight of swords, Musketeers, and menacing figures in black. (The combatants, focused on trying to disarm each other, were oblivious to the inebriated spectators' threats about finding a less perilous spot for sleeping off their evening's debauchery).

One of the thieves in black landed a solid strike that knocked the stick from Siroc's grasp. Siroc feinted aside as the man made a potentially fatal lunge with his sword. The inventor snatched up a heavy mug abandoned by one of the drunks and flung the contents into his attackers face, hitting the nearest one squarely in the eyes. For good measure, he tossed the mug next. They staggered back and Siroc dove aside, scrambling after the lost stick.

There was a flash of gray and glint of a sword and Ramon appeared in the narrow alley, tackling one of the mystery men. He rolled to his feet in time to block a strike from another, jumping into the fight.

"And how was _your_ evening?" D'Artagnan couldn't quite mask his sarcasm. He was busy fending a flurry of strikes from Francois, who meant to drive him back against the theater wall.

Ramon grinned, "About like this." He checked on the inventor, but Siroc clearly didn't need his help at the moment. The blonde had managed to disarm and steal the weapon of one of the thieves and began a counterattack with both the stick and the sword that gave his foe second thoughts about the entire fight. "Where'd you learn to fight like that?" The Spaniard asked.

"Occupational necessity---you have no idea how heated a scientific debate can become…well, that and Cecily had a rather jealous former suitor…" Siroc explained.

" 'Cecily'? So, you _do_ get out of the laboratory on occasion…"

When Francois managed to disarm D'Artagnan, the Musketeer neatly sidesteps. In one fluid motion, he shrugged out of his gray overcoat and managed to drape it over Francois' head. D'Artagnan caught the man by the arm, mindful of the razor-sharp sword, and swung him headlong back into the laboratory. There was the loud _crash_ of more breakage from somewhere in the room.

"Do you mind!" Siroc glared.

"Sorry," D'Artagnan apologized. He retrieved his sword and ran into the laboratory. Before Francois recovered from the fall, the Musketeer put his blade to the thief's throat. "You are under arrest in the name of the King."

Francois snorted, "I don't answer to a doomed king, Musketeer."

D'Artagnan pushed the blade close enough to draw a single drop of blood from the thief's neck. "What does that mean?"

The man must have been smiling beneath his mask. "It means his fate is already decided, Musketeer. More powerful people than the king will change the future of France. When we retrieve our property, you'll see what we can do." The confidence of his words and in his eyes was unnerving.

Then, Francois' eyes rolled back and he collapsed. Dropping to his knees, D'Artagnan tore the mask from the man's head. Pink foam dribbled from the corner of the thief's mouth. "Siroc!" D'Artagnan shouted.

The inventor arrived almost at once, sword raised, expecting to find the Musketeer in some sort of danger. Instead, he saw the prone figure and hurried to check Francois. "What happened to him?" D'Artagnan asked the scientist. Siroc checked, but found no breath or pulse. The thief's mouth stank of a scent like almonds.

"Poison," Siroc said. "He poisoned himself. There are remnants of a powder of some sort in his mouth…"

"No..." D'Artagnan moved to the two remaining figures sprawled on the floor and pulled off their masks, finding the same flecks of foam on their faces.

Ramon appeared in the doorway, out of breath. "Their friends lost their nerve." He'd pursued them until they'd vanished somewhere near the river. It turned out the thieves were much better at running than fighting.

D'Artagnan turned back to the inventor. "I think you'd best tell us where you've hidden the Prince's 'gift'."

Soon after, the trio was gathered around the fold-down worktable, staring at the lump of 'volcanic pumice', which Siroc had stored under a false floorboard beneath his bunk. "It's a rock," Ramon said.

Siroc shook his head. "No…not exactly. The shell is some sort of rock, but definitely not pumice. There's nothing impressive about it at all. I think our friends were more interested in what was inside the shell. When I was examining the 'pumice' yesterday, I accidentally opened the shell…and this was inside." He set the pyramid on the table.

Ramon blinked. "Yes, that's obviously much more impressive. What is it?"

Presented with a scientific mystery and an interested audience, the inventor was in his element. "I thought it was simply a carving of some sort---quartz or diamond---but it isn't. I haven't been able to identify the type of rock. It's like nothing I've seen before. It's fascinating." He stared at the object like a priest who had just unearthed the Holy Grail.

D'Artagnan made a face. "Put it on a desk and you can use it to hold down your papers. I don't see how they could threaten the king with this…unless they mean to sneak up behind him and hit him with it."

Siroc picked up the pyramid, holding it so that the Musketeers could see the circular opening. "_This_ is what makes it interesting. Stand back."

D'Artagnan and Ramon humored the inventor by backing into the corner, as far from the table as they could get.

"Farther back," Siroc instructed.

"There's not much room. I've been in coffins larger than this room…" D'Artagnan griped.

Siroc raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

"Yes, long story. There was a----" D'Artagnan stopped when Ramon elbowed him in the ribs. "I'll tell you some other time."

The inventor placed the circular stone into the pyramid and then got out of the way as, once again, every metal object (already displaced by D'Artagnan and the thieves' searches) was drawn to the stone. D'Artagnan and Ramon had to grab their weapons to prevent the swords from being torn right out of their sheaths. The door groaned again, metal hinges trying to pull themselves from the wall, and there was the sounds of furniture scraping and people squealing in surprise from the theater upstairs.

"Siroc!" the landlord bellowed.

Siroc separated the pyramid from its power source. "Sorry, Monsieur Bastelier!" he called.

The Musketeers were impressed now. D'Artagnan stared at the pyramid, wondering aloud, "What could you do with something like this? Could they actually use this to murder the king or the royal family?"

Siroc nodded gravely. "If the conspirators are more imaginative than first impressions would have us believe, then yes…the potential is…astounding."

"Conspirators," Ramon repeated the word with disdain. "Someone arranged to have that rock sent to the palace under the pretense of a 'birthday gift' for the Prince. A way to smuggle the pyramid into the palace. Our friends here were meant to retrieve it…but the Prince walked in on them before they could get that pyramid out of it, so they took the whole rock and ran…"

"That's when we spotted them," D'Artagnan added. "And when they had it in the palace, they meant to put it some place specific, to do something that was intended to kill the royal family. To come and go that freely in the palace, they had to be guards or members or the royal court---" D'Artagnan glanced at the faces of the dead men again. He knew every guard in the palace and every member of the royal court on sight…these men weren't palace guards and they weren't members of the court. "---or they had to know someone who was."

"Someone in the royal court might be part of the conspiracy," Ramon said.

"Then it would seem like a very good idea to make sure that they don't get the pyramid back," Siroc suggested.

Ramon's gaze fell on D'Artagnan's bright red hands and the red smudges he'd left all around the room. A smile played at the Spaniard's mouth, an idea forming already. "Or return the 'gift' and see which guard or member of the royal court steps forward to claim this…" He picked up the pyramid.

"_What_?"

Having just been informed of everything that had transpired from the time D'Artagnan and Ramon had spotted the thieves to the demonstration of the pyramid's powers, Captain Duvall now sat at his desk, trying to digest all that he'd been told. D'Artagnan and Ramon had embellished and omitted certain details where the inventor's part in these events was concerned, saying only that Siroc had recovered the missing stone artifact and promptly summoned the Musketeers and discovered the pyramid hidden within purely by accident. It was their conclusion about a conspiracy within the palace that had left the Captain dumbfounded. He rubbed his temples now, feeling a headache coming on quickly.

He stared at the 'pumice' shell and the harmless-looking pyramid that the younger men had delivered. "So, if I understand this, someone in the palace is part of a conspiracy to kill the king, and possibly the entire royal family. They planned to use that rock, arranged its delivery to the palace as an anonymous birthday gift for the Prince, but through sheer incompetence bungled their attempt to retrieve it and managed to accidentally remove it from the palace and drop it on this inventor's…"

"Siroc," Ramon supplied.

"…this Siroc's doorstep, and then they came back looking for it and _told_ you about their plans?" the Captain finished.

D'Artagnan nodded. "Evidently, intelligence was not a requirement of their jobs."

_Yes, Duvall was going to have a headache, no question about it now_… "This conspirator who helped them get into the palace is probably still in the palace…and we don't know who it is….waiting to get that rock back so they can finish what they started, and your plan is for us to _return_ that rock to them?"

D'Artagnan clarified, "Not 'us', Captain."

Ramon added, "If _we_ return it, we're obliged to inform the king of all we know about the conspiracy. The pyramid will be hidden away where it can never be used to threaten the royal family or it will be placed under guard, and our conspirators won't risk attempting to retrieve it if guards or Musketeers are watching. They'll simply disappear and find some other means of destroying the royal family."

"So, we thought the best way to flush out the conspirator is to let them have their rock---but place someone we trust inside the palace, someone who could pose as part of the royal court or a servant of the royal family. Someone who could keep an eye on the stone and alert us when our conspirator makes his move," D'Artagnan finished.

"If it's a member of the royal court, they would know any Musketeer on sight, even if he were in disguise," Duvall argued.

D'Artagnan and Ramon exchanged a look. "We…weren't thinking of a Musketeer, Captain."

Duvall raised an eyebrow.

"The Prince still needs a tutor in the sciences…" Ramon hinted. "A trusted royal tutor would have access to most of the palace…"

The captain was having a hard time believing that they were suggesting what they were suggestion. "You want me to send an untrained civilian I don't even know to do our job and save the king?"

"No, we want to send a scientist _we_ know to point us in the direction of whoever steals that rock whenever they steal it and _we'll_ save the king," D'Artagnan answered.

"The thieves know this…"

"Siroc," D'Artagnan and Ramon prompted.

"…just as well as they know any of the Musketeers. What makes you think they'll steal the pyramid with him watching?" Duvall asked.

"It's not going to be Siroc…well, it is but it isn't," Ramon told him. "Siroc already applied for the position and…it went badly. They want an older and more reputable professor for the Prince…"

D'Artagnan grinned, "So, Siroc's going to give them an 'older and more reputable' professor for the Prince."

"How is he—never mind, don't tell me," Duvall held up a hand. "The answer is no."

Both of the younger Musketeers spoke at once, starting to argue their point. The Captain raised his voice to override their protests: "Even if I knew I could trust your inventor, I don't need scientists, I need Musketeers. For now, if there's any chance it can be used against the royal family, that rock is not going anywhere near the palace." To make his point, he locked the 'pumice' and its pyramid in his desk drawer. "Speak to the captain of the palace guard, then find out where this 'anonymous' gift came from." When they didn't move, Duvall frowned, "Now, gentlemen."

"Yes, sir," D'Artagnan was the one to answer. Ramon looked as if he was going to start arguing again, so the Frenchman caught him by the shoulder and all but pushed him out of the Captain's quarters.

"Why didn't you say anything?" Ramon snapped when they were out of Duvall's earshot.

"What do you want me to say, Ramon? I tried. The Captain said no. What am I supposed to do? Steal the pyramid out of his desk and do whatever I please with it? Go against his orders? And if we do go against orders and something goes wrong, something happens to the royal family, then what? We'd be responsible. And Duvall's right…Siroc's a decent enough fellow…a bit overly attached to his gadgets and bottles…but still, we've known him all of six hours. And there's a difference between being a decent fellow and being someone to trust with the king's life."

Ramon was adamant, "I trust Siroc."

D'Artagnan sighed. "You trust everyone, Ramon."

That stung his friend sufficiently that Ramon stormed for the door. "Where are you going? We have to speak to the palace guard." D'Artagnan reminded him.

Ramon waved a hand, dismissing D'Artagnan. "I'm going to tell Siroc." He slammed the door open and disappeared onto the street outside.

"Suit yourself."

**_Present Day_**

D'Artagnan had lapsed into silence as they followed the tracks left by the men who'd attacked Jacqueline and Siroc. She was glad that D'Artagnan had become a bit more flexible in his attitude about obeying orders, or she would have been in the dungeons weeks ago, awaiting her execution, and her brother would already be dead. She had listened attentively to the entire tale, blanching a bit only when she pondered what the conspirators might do with that pyramid…the pyramid back in their possession now. _No wonder Siroc was anxious for me to go after the thieves…_Would she have listened to him if she'd known what the pyramid could do, the danger it presented?

Gone after them at the risk of her friend's life? She was almost glad that she hadn't known, hadn't been forced to make that choice.

"It's best that Duvall talked sense into you. Keeping the pyramid far from the royal family was the right thing to do. " Jacqueline said. "You'd have been placing the royal family and Siroc in danger sending him into the palace alone---"

"I did send Siroc to the palace," D'Artagnan said.

Jacqueline gaped. "But…you said…what about rules?"

D'Artagnan shrugged.

"What about…I thought you didn't trust him."

"I didn't," he admitted.

"What changed your mind?"

D'Artagnan smiled. "Ramon did."

**_Paris, Boulevard Trudeau, Five Years Earlier_**

Ramon had found a locked door and received no answer to his knock when he arrived at Siroc's home later that morning. It was impossible to tell if anyone was home by peering through the window. The room was almost pitch black without the benefit of candle or lantern light, catching no morning sunlight at all since it faced into the alley. Ramon worried---Siroc was not at work, naturally, since he'd only just lost his job the previous afternoon. He was supposed to wait for word from the Musketeers about their idea for the pyramid, and Ramon believed that if the inventor promised he would wait, then he would wait. If he wasn't there…was it possible the thieves who had escaped had returned?

The Musketeer had just made up his mind to force open the door when Jeanette stepped out of the side door to the theater. "He's not there. Monsieur Bastelier threw him out first thing this morning," she informed Ramon.

"Why?"

Jeanette's expression was downright sour. "Why? Siroc lost another job, that's why. No money, no room."

Ramon scowled. There were only three people who could have told Bastelier that Siroc lost his job at the blacksmith's. Ramon would have never betrayed his new friend's confidence, and he was reasonably sure Siroc hadn't volunteered that information to Bastelier. That left… "How did Bastelier know that?"

Jeanette had the grace to look guilty. Ramon walked away before he forgot everything his father had taught him about proper respect for women. Where would Siroc have gone? Should Ramon track him down, at least let him know what Duvall had said, or was it better to let the inventor go his own way and let the whole matter go.

The dancing girl whistled. "Wait a minute!"

Grudgingly, Ramon paused.

Jeanette reached for something just inside the theater door and handed it to Ramon. "Siroc said if you or someone named D'Artagnan showed up, I should give you this."

It was the melted remains of the chamber pot.

She wrinkled her nose. "Must be an inventor thing."

Ramon knew what it meant. "Seine…"

Siroc wasn't hard to find, being the only person camped near one of the bridges on the banks of the Seine River with a stack of crates and trunks (with wheels attached), a makeshift laboratory already up and running, and a campfire putting out blue smoke. The inventor was alternating his attention between reading three books simultaneously and dunking the small 'submersible' model into a basin of water. Upon contact with the water, the model bubbled, split in half, and sank like a stone. Siroc scribbled a note on a piece of parchment, mumbling to himself, "Going to need to fix that…"

"Is it too late to give up my seat on the maiden voyage?" Ramon asked.

The inventor laughed at that. "A minor…glitch. That's what the tests are for. It will be perfectly safe."

"Speaking of safe…" Ramon pointed to the fire and its blue smoke. "…are we in any danger here?"

"No," Siroc promised, not fazed by the unnatural tint of the smoke at all.

"It's blue because---?"

"It's not wood," Siroc answered.

Ramon sat down on the opposite side of the campfire, doing his best not to breathe in more of the smoke than necessary. "All right."

The inventor kept scribbling notes furiously, pausing now and then to look up something in one of the books. If he wondered about D'Artagnan's conspicuous absence, he didn't ask. "Got my message, did you?"

Ramon dropped the porcelain remains onto the sand. "Most people would have left a note."

"The thing about writing down your whereabouts on a note is that anyone can read it—including our friends from last night," Siroc reasoned.

"Fair enough. Why the riverbank?"

Siroc paused in his writing just long enough that Ramon saw his ears turn a bit crimson. "No more rooms."

"In the entire city!" Ramon didn't believe that.

"Apparently, word travels fast. People were locking their doors if I so much as glanced at their houses…" He finally set down the paper and quill. "…and speaking of word?"

Ramon shook his head and Siroc, after a moment, nodded. "Well, not surprising I suppose." His disappointment was easy to see. "What will Captain Duvall do about the conspirators?"

"We'll take care of it. Don't worry." Ramon changed the subject. "Did you find anything in those books?"

Back in his element, Siroc brightened at once, "I found out our pyramid is not a crystal, diamond, gold, silver, pyrite, platinum, tanzanite, opal, agate, geode, onyx, amber, gropple, jade---"

Ramon put his fingers to his mouth and whistled, fearing the inventor would continue listing what the pyramid 'wasn't' for the rest of the day.

Siroc summed up, "No…suffice that if anyone's stumbled across a substance like it before, they conveniently forgot to write about it. It's either an undiscovered stone or a piece of rock dropped right out of the sky just to confound me."

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

"Immensely." It was true, there were few things Siroc enjoyed more than rolling up his sleeve and tackling a scientific or an engineering challenge. "I will keep looking, I promise."

"Or when we find the conspirators, we could just ask them." They both jumped a bit—D'Artagnan had managed to sneak up on both of them. Both glanced up to see him watching their conversation from the bridge. "It's amazing, I've almost grown accustomed to the sight of blue smoke…"

"What are you doing here?" Ramon asked.

D'Artagnan was wearing the grin he reserved for when he had something up his sleeve that was going to get them into serious trouble. "I was checking the bridges down the river for a place to set up my own camp when Captain Duvall throws me out of the barracks."

"Throws you out for what?" the inventor wanted to know.

D'Artagnan reached into his coat, pulled out a cloth bag, and tossed it to Siroc. "For this." Siroc opened the back to find the 'pumice', its pyramid, and the small power source nestled in the bag. "Just don't ask me how I got it out of the desk… I'm sure you'll hear the whole story from the Captain's yelling just before he tosses me out. You were right, Ramon---if someone in the palace is planning to harm the royal family, as soon as we warn the guard, the conspirators will go into hiding, and we may not be so lucky next time. How often does one find murderous conspirators accommodating enough to fall right onto his doorstep and blurt out their plans? Never squander an opportunity."

As he explained, D'Artagnan walked down from the bridge to join them on the riverbank. "You're still our best chance of watching the palace without alerting them," he told the inventor, "provided you can pull off the plan as we discussed---and provided our friends from last night don't recognize you. How did you plan to disguise yourself?"

Enthusiasm renewed now that their course of action was decided, the inventor dug into one of the trunks, and pulled out a pair of spectacles and put them on.

"Yes, that makes all the difference," Ramon said.

**_Present Day_**

Duvall worried he would have to pick up Ramon bodily and carry him out of the laboratory. The Spaniard could be amazingly stubborn where his protectiveness of his friends was concerned, and where D'Artagnan and Siroc were concerned, Ramon wasn't just looking after his friends---he was watching out for his brothers. Therefore, he would not be moved from the laboratory. Ramon watched the doctor's every movement as the man tended Siroc until even Duvall could see that the man had become nervous under the Musketeer's unwavering stare. No warnings, threats, or polite requests from the medic elicited more that a quirk of the eyebrow from Ramon in response. The doctor was fortunate that D'Artagnan was not there, or the medic would have been laboring under the watchful eyes of both of Siroc's surrogate brothers, Duvall thought.

The Captain needed more information from Ramon---information that could not be imparted in even the company of most of the Musketeers, whom the Captain trusted implicitly, much less in front of the medic---but he did not press the point until now that the surgery was long over and the inventor was finally deep in much needed sleep. Ramon had finally left the inventor to the doctor's keeping only with Duvall's direct order and after giving the doctor a look that conveyed just how displeased the Spaniard would be if anything at all happened to the inventor during Ramon's absence.

Neither spoke until they were in the Captain's private office. "Tell me," Duvall said.

Ramon relayed what little he knew of the ambush. It was only when he told Duvall that the riders in black had escaped with the pyramid that the Captain became confused. "That's not possible," Duvall said.

"Jacque said the riders threatened to shoot him if Siroc didn't hand over the pyramid. He didn't have a choice, Captain," Ramon said.

"You misunderstand---it was not possible for Siroc to give them the Stone of Vesuvio because he didn't _have_ it to give."

Ramon was more than a bit confused by that remark. Jacque had seen what he had seen. If he said Siroc handed over the pyramid, it had to have been the pyramid. "I---what?"

"Give me a hand." Duvall crossed the room to his work desk and started to slide it across the floorboards. Ramon helped him move the desk until the Captain said to stop. "If anyone finds out about this spot, I'll hold you personally responsible," Duvall warned him, dead serious. Secret hiding places were useless if everyone in the barracks knew their location, and with this group, what one man knew, everyone knew. Duvall had been forced to improvise this new hiding place when he'd found out the hard way that D'Artagnan had figured out how to pick the locks of every drawer, trunk, and cabinet in the Captain's office.

The four legs of the desk had left imprints in the floorboards. The Captain found the appropriate one of those marked floorboards and tapped it soundly with the end of his cane. The floorboard popped up. Bending down to retrieve what was under the floorboard was an awkward effort with his bad leg, but Duvall managed anyway. He withdrew a cloth bag. Carefully wrapped up inside the bag was the pyramid in question. Ramon would have recognized it anywhere.

"But---Jacque saw---I don't understand. How did you get that?" The pyramid had been hidden in Siroc's laboratory as far as Ramon had known.

_Whoever was knocking on his door was determined that the Captain wasn't going to sleep until he tended to whatever they wanted. Duvall had just bundled his niece, Meemu, and nephew, Adam, off to his sister's and was looking forward to his first decent night's sleep since their arrival. Tending to two young children was draining enough without the fact that the riders in black had abducted almost a dozen children from Paris, including Adam. The force of worry about the boy's safety, searching night and day until he'd found Adam, had left the Captain drained, physically and emotionally. If one of his men was responsible for delaying Duvall's sleep, they'd best have a life-or-death problem or else they'd be scrubbing the dungeons…_

_Duvall flung open his door and had just opened his mouth to snap 'What', but Siroc spoke first: "Someone's gone through my laboratory."_

_The Captain didn't have to ask if Siroc was sure…the inventor knew every inch of that laboratory, probably even had assigned a proper place to every individual fleck of dust in the room. "Someone was playing a prank. I'd ask D'Artagnan and Ramon if I were you…"_

"_There was a red fingerprint. I only keep one thing in a container laced with that powder," Siroc said, dead serious._

_Duvall was awake now. He knew what that one thing was. He stepped back so that Siroc could enter the room. "Is the stone safe?" was the Captain's first question._

"_It is. Fortunately, they didn't notice the false bottom in the drawer where I was keeping it."_

"_When?" was Duvall's second question. _

"_I noticed the smudge after we returned from the chapel this morning," Siroc answered._

_That morning---when they had been rescuing Adam and the other children from their abductors. The barracks had been empty. Duvall had every Musketeer scouring the woods for his nephew. It would have been the perfect opportunity to slip into the barracks unseen. "I guess our old friends figured out their pyramid didn't find its way to oblivion," the Captain said. Siroc nodded his agreement. "I think we'd better find a safer place for that stone, then."_

_The inventor had thought the same thing. "They won't give up so easily. They deduced that we still have their stone; they'll keep coming until they get it back."_

_Duvall knew that as well. "You have an idea?"_

"_A two-part idea, actually. The first part is to returned this to you…" Siroc reached into his pocket and produced the cloth bag containing the pyramid---the Stone of Vesuvio. "…since it's clear that my laboratory won't do for a hiding place any longer."_

_Duvall accepted the stone. He knew exactly where he would hide it. "And the second part?"_

"_Wait for them to come looking for it again…and see if they can be deceived again."_

_The Captain waited for elaboration, but Siroc offered none. "I hope you have something more specific than that in mind?"_

_Siroc smiled. _

"_Never mind, don't tell me. Just—let D'Artagnan and Ramon know what happened, in case our friends do try again," Duvall ordered._

_The inventor hesitated, "And Jacque?" _

_That was a touchy subject. Duvall hated keeping secrets from any of his own men, and he knew Siroc hated lying, especially to his friends, even a lie of omission. They'd both learned the hard way that secrecy was necessary where that Stone of Vesuvio was concerned. No one outside the four of them—Duvall, Siroc, D'Artagnan, and Ramon---had known that pyramid survived its supposed destruction five years earlier because Duvall had ordered the trio to keep that secret. If anyone else had known about the stone's continued existence, if they even made careless mention of it in passing, a slip of the tongue, there was a chance that word of it would reach the conspirators. If the conspirators got their hands on it again, the royal family would be in danger. It was Duvall's duty to make sure that absolutely nothing endangered the royal family._

_And yet, he also had a duty to his men. What they didn't know affected their ability to do their jobs…affected their safety. It was the Musketeers' duty and honor to put their lives on the line, even sacrifice their lives, in defense of France and the royal family, but it was Duvall's duty to do everything in his power to ensure that it didn't come to that._

"_Only if you have no choice," Duvall finally answered._

Secrecy had done no good. The conspirators had learned of the Musketeers' deception anyway and it had almost cost the life of one of Duvall's men.

"So…if this is the real pyramid," Ramon was still trying to puzzle out what had happened. "Then what did Siroc give those thieves?"

_Part two of the 'two-part plan', _Duvall guessed. "When D'Artagnan and Jacque catch them, we'll find out."


	4. Chapter 4

_This is still anachronistic and silly and I apologize if anyone gets all offended by Siroc's disguise in this chapter. I know it's tacky (thus my repeated warnings), but I had to do it for plot reasons. Plus, I'm warped, I admit it freely. I've said repeatedly that this story is meant to be silly and nothing in it should be taken seriously, so don't say I didn't warn you. If I get flames telling me that it's anachronistic, historically iffy, dumb, bad translations, or how dare I use that disguise, I'm going to move on to the next reviewer. Fair enough? I know I don't sew up all the plot threads in this story, but one must leave the door ajar for future stories, right? Disclaimer: The characters aren't mine, they're Dan Angel's, Billy Brown's, and PAX TV's. Still rated for teenagers and up. That being said, here's the conclusion, folks. I really hope you liked it in some small way._

**5**

The Resurrection of Monsieur Vieaux

**_Paris, the Court of the King, Five Years Earlier_**

Their reactions were not unexpected.

The Royal Advisors had murmured among themselves before one, a senior member of the court named Moncrief, had stuttered out the first question: "We were told you were…much older." The man had gray hair, wrinkles around the eyes, teeth that were yellowed, worn, and in some spaces missing altogether, and _might_ have been in his seventies as he professed. Still, there was something very---odd---about the elderly gentleman that Moncrief couldn't put his finger on.

Standing beside Moncrief, the Cardinal Mazarin blinked, collecting himself. He found his voice, but tiptoed around the question truly bothering those gathered in the room. Instead, he added, "We were told you were…retired?"

Seated on her throne on the dais, Queen Anne---always forthright with her thoughts---blurted out what had truly startled the group when this elderly man had walked through the door: "We were told you were _dead_, Monsieur Vieaux."

Under their combined stares and gaping, Siroc shifted a bit in his seat. He felt perfectly ridiculous in his costume, and the longer they stared, the more he worried that they could see his disguise was fake.

_With Jeanette's help, Ramon had 'borrowed' the wig of gray hair, the suit, the shoes, and the cane from the Theater Bastelier. The Musketeer had grumbled something in Spanish upon returning to the river camp with the outfit in hand. Siroc spoke enough of the language to figure out that Ramon had promised the unpleasant woman an evening at the café in exchange for her help and was debating to himself whether he'd made a good trade or not. _

_In addition to the spectacles, Siroc had improvised the wrinkles around his eyes, his mouth, and the wooden teeth. He'd made the teeth himself, then set about mixing a salve that, when rubbed into the skin, would produce deep and temporary (he hoped) folds in the skin. The wrinkle-effect had been enough to impress the Musketeers. _

"_How did you do that?" D'Artagnan had wanted to know. _

"_The wrinkles? A simple combination of water, clay, lemon juice, human---"_

_Ramon interrupted, "Stop! We don't want to know…"_

Both Musketeers had assured the inventor that the costume was perfectly convincing. Sitting in the throne room of the royal palace now, trying not to fidget under the incredulous stares of the royal court and Queen Anne, Siroc wondered how much of his new friends' reassurances had been outright exaggerations. He glanced sidelong at his reflection in one of the Queen's mirrors. No doubt about it, he was the oddest-looking fake old man he'd ever seen. There was no way they couldn't see through his disguise…

_Very well, Master Vieaux, _he silently appealed to his old teacher, whom Siroc was certain must be watching the proceedings. _No doubt you find this whole affair sacrilegious…or else you're having a spectacular laugh over it…but I could use your help here…_

Siroc cleared his throat and did his best impersonation of his former mentor's voice: "Dead? No, that was a misunderstanding…" It was awkward trying to speak with the false teeth in his mouth. Siroc didn't know whether to worry more about the wooden teeth popping out of his mouth mid-sentence or about whether they'd every come off, since he'd used the epoxy he'd devised for the horseshoes to hold the teeth him place. "…frightened ten years out of the poor people at the funeral…but, that's water under the bridge. And here I am."

The Queen had no idea what that meant, so she changed the subject. "Yes, well…we thank you for restoring my son's birthday gift." She patted the 'volcanic pumice' that 'Monsieur Vieaux' had just delivered to the palace. "Louis was quite upset when it was stolen…where _is_ Louis? _Louis!_" Her bellow sent guards and courtiers scrambling to track down the wayward Prince.

Cardinal Mazarin rubbed his chin, glancing from the pumice stone in the Queen Anne's lap to Siroc, his expression still suspicious. "And where did you happen to find our treasure, Monsieur Vieaux?"

"Oh…that…very strange indeed. A dog was trying to bury it in my yard. I managed to fetch it from him by trading a steak bone. I was going to use it as a decoration for my desk until I heard about the dreadful business with the Prince's birthday gifts. Rest assured, I brought it to you the instant I realized what it was," Siroc answered. "Oh yes, and speaking of his royal highness' birthday…I wished to pay my own tribute in his honor. I think I have something here…" He carefully dug into the satchel slung over his shoulder, making a show of rifling through its contents, and produced what looked to those gathered like a spool of twine. "Yes, here we go!" He presented it to the Queen.

Her nose wrinkled a bit as she turned the spool over in her hands, trying to fathom what how such a seemingly useless object could be considered fitting tribute. Perhaps age had made 'Monsieur Vieaux' a bit…well, senile, she mused. "Oh…lovely. Thank you. _Louis!_"

"What?" The Prince was ushered into the room and directed towards the Queen by the flustered courtiers, who were acting like villagers offering a sacrifice to appease an angry dragon. The Prince sulked, "I was about to take my pre-mid-morning-nap nap."

The Queen nodded towards their guest. "Louis, this is the eminent Monsieur Vieaux, one of the finest instructors in the sciences in all of France. He has recovered your lost Vesuvius rock."

The Prince showed no excitement over this news at all. "Oh, the lava rock. Good. Thank you. You should be rewarded---help yourself to all the cheese and bread you'd like on your way out." He tried to duck out of the room, but the Queen caught him by his ear.

"…and he's brought you a birthday gift, for which I'm sure you'd like to offer your proper thanks." She shoved the spool into the boy's hands.

The boy scowled at the spool. "Twine on a stick? Is this a joke?"

"No, no…allow me, Your Highness." Siroc did his best to affect Monsieur Vieaux's limp as he stood and walked over to the Prince. "May I? You see the loop tied at the end of the string? That goes over your forefinger like so…now, drop the spool and move your hand like this…" Siroc demonstrated by moving his own hand up and down. "The spool drops to the end of the twine, then rewinds itself and comes back to your hand. It's a toy. See?"

Luckily for the inventor, the Prince was easily amused. After a few tries, he had the spool bobbing up and down, winding and unwinding. "Well-done! How remarkable! Would you like to try this, Mazarin?" Louis tried tossing the toy to the Cardinal, but forgot to remove the string tied around his forefinger. The spool went flying until it reached the end of the length of twine, bonked the Cardinal squarely on his nose, then rewound itself and returned to the Prince's hands. "Sorry," Louis apologized.

Mazarin rubbed his aching nose. "No, thank you, Your Majesty," he forced a pleasant reply through gritted teeth.

Everyone stepped clear when Louis tried the toy again. "Splendid indeed! How does it do that? Where did you get this?" he asked 'Monsieur Vieaux'.

"Simple physics. Action-reaction. And I made it," Siroc answered. _This was it... _"I could teach you how it works if you are sincerely interested."

The Prince stopped playing, staring in awe at him. "You're an inventor? A scientist? Well, then, you must stay. I need a tutor in the sciences and the ones Mazarin has brought me are perfectly boring bags of wind…"

Siroc hid a grin. It was the answer he'd hoped for. "Oh…I'm honored Your Majesty…but I couldn't…"

Louis stamped his foot. "Nonsense! Of course you could. I insist." He tried the spool toy again and laughed. "I just love this…Mazarin, show Monsieur Vieaux the laboratory." With that, the Prince bounded out of the room, new toy in hand.

Silence descended on the group. Siroc waited.

Finally, the Queen turned to him. "Monsieur…I realize it's something of an imposition, but we are having the devil's own time finding a tutor whom Louis responds to…and you did seem to get his attention."

Cardinal Mazarin still stared rather suspiciously at 'Monsieur Vieaux'. "You can, of course, say 'no'…"

Siroc bowed to the Queen, "It would be my privilege, Your Majesty."

Ramon and D'Artagnan hated waiting.

Siroc had delivered the 'pumice' to the palace. The last they'd seen of the inventor was him being escorted inside by one of the royal guard. It was out of their hands at that point---it was up to Siroc to convince the Queen and Prince to offer him the tutor's job. If he couldn't, there'd be no one to watch for any attempts to steal the rock, and the Musketeers would have to alert the palace guards about the possibly conspiracy.

D'Artagnan and Ramon circled around to the side of the palace. They were familiar enough with the palace, having been there many times in an official capacity to offer reports to the royal family, to know where to find the laboratory window. Luckily, the laboratory overlooked the gardens, and there was sufficient cover in the form of trees and shrubs and fountains, for the Musketeers to find a hiding place from which the window was visible. If Siroc had succeeded in his task, the laboratory was the next place they should see him.

Sure enough, almost an hour after Siroc had vanished into the palace, the laboratory door opened to reveal Cardinal Mazarin and the royal advisor Moncrief leading 'Monsieur Vieaux' into the room. Siroc was moving his jaw as if worried his false teeth were about to fall out and tugging as subtly as he could at the wig, which tried to slide forward.

"He looks strangely like my Aunt Geraldine in that costume," D'Artagnan said.

"Really? That's disturbing in every possible way," Ramon cringed.

Moncrief was gesturing around, mouth moving non-stop, obviously giving 'Vieaux' the tour of the facility. Cardinal Mazarin was staring at 'Vieaux' like Siroc was a pesky bug he'd like the smash…D'Artagnan and Ramon would have to particularly keep an eye on Mazarin if he were even remotely suspicious.

"…If there's anything else you require, you need only ask," Moncrief completed 'Vieaux's' tour of the laboratory.

Siroc shook his head so vehemently that he almost displaced the wig again. "No…I think this will be suitable…_more_ than suitable." He glanced wistfully at the finest assortment of laboratory equipment he'd ever seen in his life. There were tools and gadgets he'd never heard of even in rumors stocked in this facility. _I could have been very happy in this job…_

He glanced sidelong at Mazarin, who was still watching him like a hawk. _…or maybe not._

Moncrief smiled. "Excellent. There's a room just through that door. It will serve as your private quarters. Meals are brought to you in your quarters unless the Prince or the Queen requests that you dine with them. Lessons are in the afternoon. You have the use of the laboratory the rest of the day to do as you wish."

Siroc bowed again, mindful of his uncooperative wig. "Most generous. Thank you."

From their vantage point, D'Artagnan and Ramon watched as Siroc gawked at the laboratory like a child who'd just been given the largest collection of toys in the world.

"Now, you see, two things have happened here," Ramon counted, "One---he's completely forgotten about conspirators and sky rocks. Two—we'll be obliged to rescue the entire royal court from blue smoke before this evening is over…"

Siroc wasn't sleeping---there was nothing unusual about that---but, for once, it wasn't scientific inspiration keeping him awake.

He'd at least tried to perform the task of giving the Prince a proper lesson in science that afternoon. The strangeness of being thrust into the role of teacher instead of pupil had brought to mind Siroc's own days with the mentor he was now impersonating, had made him miss the man all over again. Of course, Siroc had never dozed off in the middle of one of Monsieur Vieaux's lessons. Siroc wondered if Vieaux might have preferred that to having an alert and enthusiastic student prone to causing things to explode and/or catch fire in his laboratory on a daily basis. But, no, Vieaux had good humor. He always dismissed the accidents as 'the inevitable consequence of the learning process', whereas if Siroc had drifted off mid-lesson, Vieaux would have taken it as a personal insult.

Eluding both the palace guards and the ever-suspicious Cardinal Mazarin had been another challenge (it was lucky that Ramon and D'Artagnan were familiar with the palace and the routines of its guards and could advise him), but Siroc had done so to reach the display where Louis had stored his 'volcanic pumice'. He was glad to discover that the rock had been placed on an object very similar to a measuring scale…that had inspired Siroc. Basing it on the clock that he'd used all these years to wake him each morning, he'd rigged a sort of 'alarm' to the display: If the rock were removed from its perch, the upward motion of its scale-like display would pull on a string. Siroc then made a small hole in the wall (just a bit of an acidic compound and a small hand-drill from his laboratory did the job) and pulled the string through the hole. On the other side of the wall, as D'Artagnan and Ramon had said, was a small room used to store hats the Queen had purchased and grown bored with. The other end of the string was tied to the arm of a bell. It would ring, just once, when the string pulled at it. Therefore, and Siroc had tested to make sure it worked, when the conspirators removed that 'pumice' from its stand, even if it was only for a few seconds, the bell would quietly sound in the adjoining closet.

Which meant, Siroc had to sit in the closet and wait if he intended to hear it. And wait. And wait some more. Fortunately, as long as he had a pen, a piece of parchment, and light to see by, Siroc was never bored. He'd whiled away many nights sitting and sketching out new inventions…and he was still mulling over what had gone wrong with the tests on his submersible. The only distraction was pausing to listen every time he heard footsteps in the corridor outside and the maddening itching of the wig and false teeth.

He had no idea how long he'd been sitting there when the bell finally chimed.

Siroc was on his feet at once, hurrying to the closet door. He opened it just a crack, enough to see a figure in the thieves' familiar black uniform, round a corner and disappear down the hallway. The 'pumice' had been replaced on its display as if it had never been touched, but a glance at the floor told Siroc all he needed to know: He'd filled the false pumice shell with his trick powder and then glued the shell closed so that, when they had to fight the epoxy's seal to open the shell, they'd be sure to douse themselves with the powder. The thief/conspirator had opened the shell to remove the pyramid and its power source and paid no mind at all when the powder had spilled out, covering him…and blanketing his feet. Red footprints were already appearing on the carpets and red smudges on the wall…marking a plain trail that would lead right to the thief.

As fast as he could, Siroc had run back to his laboratory. He lit a candle and placed it on the windowsill. He couldn't see them, but the Musketeers were supposed to be watching for this signal from their hiding places somewhere outside.

Siroc picked up the satchel he'd hung from a peg on the laboratory's wall. It was loaded with extra powder and what jars and bottles had survived the destruction of his own laboratory. It was the powder that Siroc was worried about.

He had promised D'Artagnan and Ramon that he'd stay out of the way, that he'd simply point them in the direction of whoever took the pyramid and let them pursue the thief. However, there were too many variables in play for Siroc to sit by and do nothing. He didn't know how far the thief would wander or how long the powder that coated the man's hands and feet would last before wearing off. If it wore off, they might lose the thief. If that happened, the royal family was in peril of their lives and D'Artagnan and Ramon would be disgraced (or imprisoned) for this unauthorized plan. Therefore, Siroc intended to make sure the trail didn't run out before it lead the Musketeers to the conspirators.

Siroc was able to catch up to the fleeing thief shortly before his trail—the powder—had run out. He had run until he could hear the echo of the man's footsteps. The man had made his way downstairs, to the lower levels of the palace, and then out the door and across the courtyard to the stables. Halfway there, the last of the powder had been scraped or kicked off his shoes. It didn't matter—Siroc had him in earshot, and utilizing the simple physics of sound waves made it pitifully easy for the inventor to trail him while still keeping out of the thief's sight. At every turn in the hallway, Siroc had pulled the jar of the powder from his satchel, dipped his own finger into the mixture, and with it drawn a small arrow on the wall to guide Ramon and D'Artagnan. He only hoped they weren't too far behind…

D'Artagnan and Ramon had raced into the palace the instant they saw Siroc place the telltale candle onto the laboratory's windowsill. They knew the layout of the palace as well as they knew the layout of the Musketeers' barracks and they found the corridor where Louis had displayed the 'pumice' easily, save for the matter of evading the guards. The floor and walls were smeared with red handprints and footprints.

"It actually worked," D'Artagnan admitted. _The inventor had pulled it off._

"I don't want to be here when the Queen sees this mess," Ramon said.

They followed the tracks down into the lower levels, noticing that the red footprints were growing progressively fainter the farther they went. That was disconcerting…even more so when they reached the last footprint, which almost indistinguishable.

"Now what?" D'Artagnan asked.

Ramon looked around, then spied the red arrows on the wall and pointed them out to D'Artagnan. It had to be Siroc's doing.

D'Artagnan grinned. "This guy's growing on me."

The inventor crept into the stables, keeping eyes and ears open to be sure that absolutely no one saw or heard him sneak inside. Keeping low, hiding behind the stalls as he moved, he searched until he finally found the thief.

The thief wasn't alone. There were three more men in black uniforms gathered in the stables. They were preparing one of the royal carriages and a rickety wagon. The trio had fixed a false bottom into the wagon and were piling crates on top of it. Under the false bottom, they had placed a large, heavy, metal bar. They shoved blankets behind it and a few small boxes. From the looks of it, the effort was meant to keep the bar from rolling around when the wagon moved. A similar bar was being fixed to the underside of the carriage.

"Odin! Pascal! Tujan! You were supposed to have that finished," the thief with the pyramid scolded. Siroc recognized the voice and scowled---the man with the pyramid was one of the men who had wrecked his laboratory.

Odin eyed the pyramid. "Is that thing dangerous?"

The thief smacked him soundly in the face. "Not without its power source."

Pascal sniffed, "I do not see how we'll get rid of the Prince with that rock."

"That's why you are not in charge. We move, now!" the thief ordered. "The Master's waiting. Then you'll get your demonstration of how our treasure will rid us of that flouncing idiot."

Siroc watched anxiously, debating with himself as to what to do. He didn't want to take the chance of losing the thieves. The wagon would not leave a much of a trail on the streets of Paris in the dark of the middle of the night. Unless…

Deciding in the space of a heartbeat, having just a few seconds to act while the men were distracted with their bickering over the pyramid, Siroc dashed to the wagon and scrambled into the shadows beneath the false bottom. It was really no different from squeezing between his bed and his table in his room at Bastelier's. Just to be safe, he covered himself with one of the blankets.

Then one of the conspirators closed the gate of the wagon and Siroc was left in pitch black. Footsteps crunched on straw and dirt and then the wagon swayed as one of the men climbed into the driver's seat. There was the crack of the reins and the wagon lurched. "_Hâte_!" the thief with the pyramid shouted.

Hastily, Siroc felt around the wagon boards until his fingers found a hole where a knot had come out of the planks. He began pouring powder through that hole onto the dirt streets, counting ten second intervals between drops, and lamented how much wiser it would have been to devise powder that would glow in the dark.

The trail of red arrows guided D'Artagnan and Ramon to the empty palace stables. From the tracks and mess left behind, the thieves had taken two carriages or carts or wagons. Of the thieves and the inventor, there was not a sign.

"No, no…" Ramon cursed in Spanish and rushed to check the stables again.

_We've lost them_, D'Artagnan felt a stab of fear at the knowledge. Fear for the royal family and for the inventor.

The wagon bumped and lurched for quite a long ways. Siroc had no idea where he was or whether the Musketeers were able to follow the wagon's tracks or the trail he'd tried to leave.

Siroc felt the change when the wagon left the dirt streets for the uneven ground of the forest. That was something---they'd leave more of a trail for D'Artagnan and Ramon driving through grass and undergrowth than on the dirt. That was a very good thing, since he'd almost run out of powder to mark a trail. By listening to the echo of the horse's steps, the creaks of the wheels, and the random words exchanged by the thieves, it dawned on Siroc that they were very near some sort of canyon or ravine.

He couldn't get out of the wagon with that gate closed, and the crates weighed down the false bottom so that he couldn't push it upwards to crawl out from beneath it. There were no other ways out.

"_There is no back door."_

"_Invent one."_

Good advice was good advice, Siroc decided. Feeling around in the pitch black, he located his satchel. He began sorting through the jars and bottles by touch and smell. When he found the two that he wanted, he mumbled a prayer that he didn't over mix them, since he couldn't see what he was doing…

The wagon jolted to a stop. It bounced as the driver jumped from his seat to the ground. Siroc listened attentively, but didn't stop what he was doing.

Odin was complaining, "So, we're here. Now, perhaps you will explain how this rock will gain us the throne?"

"That's why you were called here…for your demonstration of the power of the Stone of Vesuvio."

Siroc didn't know that voice. It wasn't one of the thieves from his house or from the palace. It seemed somehow familiar, but the newcomer was speaking Latin with a very thick accent and it sounded as if he were speaking through fabric like a mask, which further muffled and distorted his voice. He found another hole, this one in the planks on the wagon's sides and tried to see through the narrow opening. In the glow of moonlight and lanterns, he saw someone who might have been the speaker, but the man was indeed wearing a black mask so Siroc couldn't be sure until he spoke again. The man also wore some sort of golden medallion around his neck. In the dark, there was no chance of Siroc making out what was inscribed on the pendant.

"When the royal family is on board for their ride to the concert, one of our men will place a metal beam just like this one beneath their carriage." The leader strode to the carriage his men had stolen from the stables and pointed out the bar. "The drive will be one of our own. He will make sure their path to the concert leads them here instead. When they pass the ravine..."

Siroc grinned, _Ravine it is then. _He craned his neck a bit to look past the carriage. He knew this ravine. It wasn't very deep, the King's engineers had managed to bridge the small gap, and there was a cluster of rocks near its rim---and at the bottom of the drop-off.

"When the carriage passes this ravine, we'll have our choice of how to eliminate the family. First, we can place the pyramid among those boulders. Trujan, if you please, wait for my signal and place the power source into the pyramid. I suggest that you then hide behind the boulders as quickly as you can," the leader instructed. "Secure the wagon. Unhitch the horses from the carriage."

The thieves hastened to obey. Siroc heard their activities, heard boulders rolled in front of the wagon's wheels to hold it in place, but could still see only the man in the medallion and the carriage. The horses were led away from the carriage quickly. The leader removed his medallion from around his neck and buttoned it into one of his pockets.

"The driver will unhitch the horses, jump onto them or to the side of the road. I suggest you hang on to your swords and take your horses behind the rocks if you value either one, gentlemen. At this point, our man behind the boulders places the power source into the pyramid, and--" The leader gestured for Trujan to do just that.

The pyramid's glow bathed the small clearing in purple light. The wagon shuddered, its team of horses whinnied nervously, and strained in the pyramid's magnetic pull so violently that Siroc thought it might come apart (which, all things considered, would have been very helpful to him at that point). The carriage, unsecured against the pyramid's pull, raced forward. It picked up speed under the pyramid's power, until it finally slammed into the boulders and splintered into pieces. Siroc was at once riveted and horrified by the sight.

The leader waved it off. "A terrible tragedy, of course. Unhitch the horses from the wagon and I'll show you what happens when the royal carriage is on one side of the ravine and the pyramid is on the other…"

Galvanized from scientific fascination by the fact that the wagon was about to find its way to the bottom of the ravine---with him still inside---Siroc returned to the mixture he'd been preparing. He took the mixture and began pouring it over the bottom of the wagon as fast as he could. He must have blended the compounds correctly, for smoke poured from the boards at once, stinging his eyes. He covered his nose and mouth, not daring to either breathe in the fumes or to cough and betray his presence to the men outside the wagon.

Ramon had found tracks in the courtyard…two sets of them. But, more importantly, after a search by the light of lanterns the thieves had left burning in the stables, Ramon spotted familiar crimson drops on the dirt road. They were nearly impossible to see in the lamplight, but they were there.

The Musketeers had borrowed horses from the stables. On foot, they'd followed the wagon tracks and crimson drops to the main road, where the tracks blended with those of the many other carts and carriages that traveled the streets. It was the crimson stains that ensured the tracks D'Artagnan and Ramon followed were the right ones. Now and then, they'd find someone wandering the streets, even at this late hour, and would inquire. A few recalled seeing one of the royal carriages and a wagon moving in the direction of the forest.

"At least we know what we're looking for now," D'Artagnan said.

Their task became easier when they reached the edge of the city. Traveling on foot was maddeningly slow, and they were painfully aware that each passing minute was time they couldn't spare, time in which the thieves---and Siroc---slipped farther away from them. On the outskirts of the city, the wagon and carriage had turned from the main road onto a seldom-used trail.

"This road leads to the ravine," Ramon knew.

D'Artagnan had a sick feeling in his gut that he knew why the thieves had taken this trail. The crimson drops would be impossible to follow with this uneven terrain, but it didn't matter. They knew where the thieves were heading. It wouldn't be safe trying to run this road at night with only the moon for light, but they had no choice. The Musketeers had climbed onto the horses and urged them as fast as they dared down the trail.

Light appeared on the road ahead of them. Familiar, purple light.

The sound of their horses' approach had been drowned out by the groan of the wagon and the crash of the carriage as it plowed across the clearing and dashed itself to pieces against the boulders. D'Artagnan and Ramon were just in time to witness the terrible spectacle. "Siroc…" D'Artagnan prayed the inventor hadn't been hiding in the carriage.

Tying the horses to the trees, lest the animals wander and alert the thieves to their presence, the Musketeers found a place in the undergrowth of the forest from which they had a good view of the men in the clearing. There were six or seven men in all, the conspirators beyond a doubt, each of their faces hidden behind those damnable black masks. One spoke with the authority of a leader. D'Artagnan and Ramon listened carefully, seeing if they could place his voice, but couldn't. He was speaking in Latin. D'Artagnan had learned a bit as a child, but Ramon didn't speak one word of the language. He didn't need to in order to see what was about to happen: The leader was carrying the pyramid towards the bridge. His minions were removing stones that had been holding the wagon in place and unhitched the horses from the wagon.

There was no sign of Siroc anywhere.

"Do you see him?" Ramon whispered.

"No." D'Artagnan refused to believe the inventor had been in that carriage. "He may have jumped out along the way."

Ramon wanted to believe that, but doubt etched his features. "We would have seen him."

"Hiding somewhere nearby? The trees? I'm sure---"

The Spaniard spied something and pointed towards the wagon. "There! Look!"

D'Artagnan saw it too. It was almost invisible in the moonlight and glow of the lamps, but it was there: Blue smoke was coming out the bottom of the wagon.

"Siroc," they both said.

"Distract them," Ramon told D'Artagnan as he rushed to intercept the leader.

D'Artagnan rolled his eyes. " 'Distract them'…easy for him to say…"

Siroc felt the wagon being turned---presumably for a straight shot at the ravine. The acidic compound he'd mixed was eating through the wagon boards, but not nearly fast enough. He pulled the ridiculous wig off his head, wrapped it around his hand, and began pushing at the weakening boards.

That's when Siroc heard thunder---hoofbeats---and the sounds of shouting. This was followed by the clang of metal on metal—swords! The cry of challenge that accompanied the noises of battle was immediately recognizable as D'Artagnan's. Breathing a sigh of relief, Siroc gave up trying to be quiet with his attempts to break the boards. He began smashing at the dissolving boards with blows from his elbows instead.

Odin had been unhitching the horses from the wagon when he noticed the smell…a rather unpleasant odor (even more so than the usual scents associated with sweaty horse flesh). It wasn't coming from the animals, so what was it? The thief circled the wagon, sniffing gingerly at the air, trying to discern the source of the foul odor. Thinking that the wagon wheels might have rolled through manure or something, Odin bent to check…and saw the blue smoke seeping from the bottom of the wagon.

"Mairde!" He cursed. _The wagon was on fire!_ Odin didn't pause to wonder how that was possible. He went to the back of the wagon and started pushing it towards the ravine at the same moment the horse carrying D'Artagnan charged into the clearing.

About to step onto the bridge at the bottom of the slope, their master heard the sudden commotion and turned to look back at the clearing. Unbelievable! There was a Musketeer attacking his men! "What the---?"

"Hey!"

The voice came from the direction of the boulders. The leader turned to look---just in time to see the heel of Ramon's boot careening towards his face. Ramon's kick landed squarely beneath the thief's jaw. The blow knocked the man from his feet and sent him flying. He hit the ground with a _thud_ and didn't move. His hand came open upon impact and the pyramid and its power source rolled out of his grasp…right towards the ravine's drop-off! Forgetting the thief, Ramon leaped from the horse and dove for the stones, catching the pyramid in a lucky grab. Sliding, digging in his heels to keep from going over the drop-off, he only just managed to snatch up the circular power source in time.

In the middle of a swordfight, being on the horse affording him some advantage, D'Artagnan saw one of the thieves circle the wagon and then bend to peer at its underside. The thief shrieked, "Fire!", and shoved the wagon towards the slope that led down to the ravine.

"Siroc!" D'Artagnan shouted at the top of his lungs, trying to warn the inventor. He tried to steer his horse towards the wagon, but the thieves closed in on him, inserting themselves between the Musketeer and his goal.

Ramon heard D'Artagnan's shout and glanced up in time to see the danger. The wagon was being pushed, slowly but steadily, towards the slope. One of the idiots in black was shoving it in that direction. Ramon's breath caught in his throat, _Oh God, what could he do_? _He'd never be able to physically stop the wagon if it hit that slope…_

He stared at the pyramid and power source in his hand. _Maybe…_Ramon climbed, heading for the top of the slope as fast as he could.

Powerless to do anything else to stop the fool who was pushing Siroc towards certain death, D'Artagnan lifted his sword like a javelin and pitched it at the man. The blade drove straight through Odin's heart, pinning him to the back of the wagon. D'Artagnan was seconds too late---the wagon had just reached the beginning of the downslope. Worse, the Frenchman was now unarmed and surrounded by the remaining thieves.

In the wagon, Siroc was just beginning to punch a hole through the weakening boards when he felt the wagon hit the slope. He felt himself pitched away from the opening that was his only chance of escape, sliding towards the front of the wagon, and grabbed the split he'd made in the planks to catch himself. _Not good…_

Ramon reached the top of the slope. Fortunately, the thieves were preoccupied with D'Artagnan and didn't notice the second Musketeer at all. Trujan spied Ramon and attempted to stop him and died before he could raise his blade against the Musketeer. Circling behind the wagon, Ramon shoved the power source into the pyramid.

The purple glow illuminated the clearing, nearly turned night to day so brilliant was the light. Ramon aimed the pyramid in the direction of the wagon, not that he needed to: The magnetic pull halted the wagon's descent towards the drop-off almost instantly. Ever so slowly, the wagon began to roll upwards, towards the top of the slope. What he didn't notice until D'Artagnan yelled, "Ramon, _watch out_!", was that the pyramid's power also ripped the swords from the hands of the unprepared combatants. The blade sailed towards the man—towards the pyramid he grasped in his hands.

Inside the wagon, the boards finally gave way beneath Siroc's grasp, and an opening formed that was just large enough for him to squeeze through if he could only climb…

Ramon moved for the cover of the boulders, still trying to point the pyramid over his shoulder in the direction of the wagon as he ran. Finally, he had to drop the stone in order to dive for cover. The swords piled atop of the pyramid or collided with the boulders where Ramon had sought protection from the projectiles.

When Ramon dropped the pyramid, it too bounced off the boulders. The impact dislodged the power source from the pyramid. Abruptly, the purple glow and its magnetic field winked out. Both Musketeers watched helplessly as, free of the pyramid's hold, the wagon careened down the slope and sailed over the drop-off.

_Oh no…_

Time crawled to a stop. For an eternity, neither Musketeer could move or think. D'Artagnan savagely punched one of the thieves when the man intruded into his grieving for his friend by challenging the Frenchman. D'Artagnan felt his legs start to carry him, of their own volition, towards the ravine. The depth of his anguish caught him unprepared…it was absurd, D'Artagnan might have laughed if he could breathe at the moment. He'd barely known the quirky inventor for two days, and it felt as though he'd just lost a close friend and comrade of many years.

Ramon made it to the drop-off, his face etched with the same shock and grief that D'Artagnan felt. The Spaniard stood, unmoving, staring over the edge into the ravine. D'Artagnan tried to find his voice, to say something, but there were no words that would comfort his friend. Was it only yesterday that D'Artagnan had chided Ramon for his fast-forged bond with Siroc? But Ramon had trusted his intuition about the man, and he'd been right. D'Artagnan had no way to make up for his own doubts except to help Ramon retrieve the inventor's body from the crevasse and arrange a funeral befitting a---

"Siroc?" Ramon shouted into the ravine. D'Artagnan was sure it must have been denial that prompted the outburst…

…until he reached the edge of the ravine. Quite visible in the moonlight was a figure, very much alive, dangling from the end of a blanket. The cloth had managed to snag a branch that protruded from the wall of the ravine. In response to hearing his name, Siroc turned his head to gaze up at the two Musketeers.

"Siroc?" D'Artagnan gasped. "How---?"

The inventor couldn't shrug. His full attention was on keeping his grip on the blanket. "It occurred to me that, in a freefall, if I stretched the blanket, its square footage might catch an updraft and create a lift that would slow my descent…" he explained.

D'Artagnan and Ramon nearly sagged, so great was their relief. "Did it?" Ramon humored him.

"No. Perhaps I should try jumping from a higher altitude---"

"NO!" both Musketeers shouted at once.

Siroc pouted a bit. "Just a thought." It dawned on him then how very far down the bottom of the gorge was. "Uh---there wouldn't be a rope or something up there?"

The Musketeers looked around. It was then that Ramon noticed the bridge---

The leader of the conspirators was gone! He must have slipped away while Ramon and D'Artagnan were busy with the wagon. Ramon swore.

Siroc couldn't see what was upsetting his friend from his position in the gorge. "What?"

Ramon and D'Artagnan exchanged grim looks. After all this, to have even one of the men elude them…but their friend was alive. If that was the trade-off, then so be it.

The conspirators couldn't hide forever.

**_Present Day_**

The riders in black brought their horses up short when---just as they had almost reached the main road into Paris---they found themselves surrounded Cardinal Mazarin and his guards. The riders had expected to see the Cardinal…but not there, in the middle of the forest. Something had to be dreadfully wrong for their leader to have risked a face-to-face meeting like this, with the whole of the Musketeers scouring the countryside for them. Mazarin's displeasure was all too apparent.

The first rider feared to ask: "Eminence---what are you doing here? We promised to deliver the Stone of Vesuvio to you at----"

Mazarin signaled for the man to dismount at once. Nervously, the rider complied. "I'm here because the Prince heard a rumor that the same conspirators who stole the Stone of Vesuvio five years ago, who abducted eight children from Paris last week, attacked and wounded one of his Musketeers this morning. The Prince was quite upset about that---he has that inconvenient attachment to his Musketeers, as you're well aware. He insisted that I send my personal guards to help apprehend the dangerous criminals responsible." The slightest clenching and unclenching of the Cardinal's fist was the only warning sign of the depths of his fury. "You can well imagine how surprised I was to hear about this---especially as I had explicitly ordered you to search the barracks for the stone…not to ambush, not to kill, and not to bring down angry Musketeers and royal tantrums on me." His gaze narrowed, a predator about to pounce on prey. Beneath the mask, sweat dotted the rider's brow. "Why?" The Cardinal demanded.

The rider was almost tongue-tied attempting to say something to appease his leader. "We obeyed your orders to the letter, Eminence…but…but we couldn't find the stone anywhere….I thought…"

Mazarin purred, "Thinking wasn't one of your orders."

The rider continued: "…The barracks were supposed to be empty…the Musketeers returned too soon…but we have the stone now." Eager to please the Cardinal, the rider pulled the stone and its power source from his pocket and offered it to Mazarin.

The Cardinal inspected the stone. Something about it wasn't right. The texture, the color, it was off a bit. He made no move to accept it. "Remove your gloves," he said.

"Pardon?" the rider asked.

"_Gloves!_"

The rider tore the gloves off his hands…which were now tinted bright red.

Mazarin sneered, "You idiot. You let the inventor know you were there." He backed away from the pyramid—or whatever it was the inventor had given the riders. "You have nothing but a rock…and I have to clean up your mess for the good of our Cause."

The implications of that statement made all three riders tremble a bit, the first rider most of all. "But, the pyramid is right here….I'll show you it's real…." The rider put the power source into the stone.

Nothing happened.

The rider shook the pyramid, slapped it with his hands, and still nothing happened. He tried pulling the cylinder-shaped power source out…but the thing wouldn't be pulled free. It was stuck as if it had been glued. The rider tugged with all his might and finally the cylinder came loose…or rather, broke in half. When it shattered, a puff of blue smoke emerged from the 'power source'. The noxious smell of the smoke efficiently rendered the first rider unconscious.

The second rider, resigned to his fate, addressed the Cardinal: "What are your orders, Eminence?"

Mazarin was blunt. "You failed. You put us all in peril. I expect you to make amends."

The remaining two riders nodded their understanding. They would accept punishment as sole perpetrators of the crime. They would go to their deaths without breathing a word about the Cardinal and their glorious Cause. They would be martyrs for the greater good of the revolution to come. Mazarin saw all that in their eyes and, just for the moment, was satisfied. But the rider slumped on the ground…he was weaker than Mazarin had anticipated. He would betray all of them to prevent his own execution.

The Cardinal couldn't allow that. He took a pistol from one of his guards and personally shot the unconscious man squarely in the heart. No one gathered in the forest so much as flinched. Mazarin returned the pistol to the guard, then moved to the dead man. The Cardinal pulled a gold medallion from his own pocket---not quite an exact duplicate as the one Mazarin himself had worn the night he had demonstrated the power of the Stone of Vesuvio, the night when the Musketeers had almost apprehended him, but a decent replica that would full said Musketeers. He placed the medallion into the dead rider's pocket.

Not far away, D'Artagnan and Jacqueline heard the echo. They urged their horses in the direction from which the shot had come. They rounded a bend in the path and stumbled onto the scene of Cardinal Mazarin and his guards in the process of binding the hands of two of the riders. The third rider lay dead on the ground.

"Cardinal?" D'Artagnan asked.

Mazarin smiled, the image of innocence and eagerness to help. "The Prince heard about your friend. He asked that I personally see to it that the men responsible were brought to justice…" He saw the Musketeers glance at the dead rider. "That one was reluctant to be captured."

D'Artagnan and Jacqueline didn't believe a word the Cardinal said. Too much experience, too painful of experiences, with the 'holy' man had taught them better. The Musketeers dismounted and knelt beside the corpse. D'Artagnan noted the dead man's red-tinted hands. This was the one who broke into Siroc's laboratory…at least one of them. He was sure that, beneath their gloves, the men being detained by Mazarin's guards would have red-tinted hands as well. D'Artagnan was only sorry that the Cardinal's hands weren't tinted bright red. He supposed that would have been too simple, though, Mazarin would never allow himself to be caught that easily.

Next, D'Artagnan removed the dead rider's mask. He recognized the face behind the mask at once. Mazarin made a show of his shock: "Moncrief! The Prince's own advisor!" The Cardinal sighed, shaking his head. D'Artagnan and Jacqueline both fought the urge not to be ill over the false display of sorrow and dismay that Mazarin affected. "I owe you my apologies, D'Artagnan. It would seem you were right about a conspirator within the Prince's own inner circle. How fortunate that you've _finally_ apprehended him after all these years…with our humble assistance, of course."

D'Artagnan looked away from the Cardinal's sneer before he lost the battle with himself not to punch the man right in the face. He checked the dead man's pockets and found the medallion right away, recognized it at once. His only question was who had worn the medallion that night five years ago? Moncrief? Or Mazarin?

"What is that?" Mazarin feigned ignorance.

D'Artagnan raised an eyebrow, but answered only, "Nothing." He though he knew who the real owner of the medallion was…and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

_At least, not yet..._

"Why would these men attack a Musketeer?" The Cardinal asked.

D'Artagnan's gaze fell on the broken mess of the 'pyramid' that Siroc had given the riders in black. It wasn't difficult to see that this 'Stone of Vesuvio' was a fake. He took some consolation at that---Siroc had tricked Mazarin and his co-conspirators after all. That meant the real pyramid was still safely hidden somewhere in the barracks.

"You surely remember that these men absconded with the Prince's volcano rock years ago? The one that had some pyramid called the 'Stone of Vesuvio' inside? The pyramid was crushed to pieces---the thieves were foolish enough to leave it sitting in a wagon that they sent over the sides of very deep ravine. I think these gentlemen were under the mistaken impression that the Stone of Vesuvio survived the plunge---and that _this_ pyramid was it. I don't know who put that insane notion into their heads. We would never lie to the Queen and Prince about the stone being dashed to pieces. We certainly wouldn't lie about it and then keep the pyramid for ourselves." D'Artagnan handed the remains of the fake pyramid to Mazarin, making sure most of the powder covering the false rock fell directly onto the Cardinal's unprotected hands. D'Artagnan looked Mazarin directly in the eye and added: "Siroc used _this_ piece of glass to hold down papers on his worktable. There's nothing remarkable about it at all. It was a fake all along." His tone let the Cardinal know that D'Artagnan was well aware that the pyramid wasn't the only thing that was a fake.

Mazarin cleared his throat. "So it would seem."

D'Artagnan smiled in vengeful satisfaction at that. Mazarin had to be absolutely livid beneath his calm façade. The Cardinal couldn't very well admit to knowing the Stone of Vesuvio still existed, that the Musketeers had lied about it being destroyed in the wagon accident, without explaining _how_ he knew it…and that would lead to too many questions and quite possibly to the suspicion that he was involved with the conspirators…which meant he couldn't accuse D'Artagnan of lying right now---or demand that the Musketeers return the real Stone of Vesuvio.

And if Mazarin even _thought_ of trying to steal the real stone again, he was going to have every Musketeer in France to deal with now that they knew he was coming.

The Cardinal stepped away from the Musketeer, addressing his guards instead. "Take those two to the dungeons----"

Jacqueline spoke up: "With respect, Cardinal, we'll do that ourselves." She gave him a look that dared Mazarin to argue.

_It wasn't enough. They had the men who'd ambushed her and Siroc, two of them had not lived to make another attempt on her life or the lives of her friends, but it wasn't enough. _Jacqueline had to watch Cardinal Mazarin ride away again knowing that he was once again responsible for harm brought to someone close to her. The thought was making bile rise in her throat. There was nothing she could do---she knew the Cardinal was somehow connected to these riders in black, to whatever forces were conspiring against the King, but knowing it and proving it were two different matters.

But when she could prove it…Mazarin would answer to her personally. She had made that promise when her father died, renewed it when her brother had almost perished, and she swore it again then and there.

It was sunset before D'Artagnan and Jacqueline returned to the barracks. They rode straight into the stables. Siroc's room was adjacent and that was where they were sure to find Ramon.

The shutters on the window to the bedroom/laboratory had been closed. Ramon was seated on a bench outside Siroc's door, hardly moving, not speaking, just waiting. The only motion he made was fidgeting with his collar…no, in fact, upon closer look, they saw that he was touching the crucifix he wore beneath the folds of his shirt. The gesture unnerved both D'Artagnan and Jacqueline.

D'Artagnan hardly dared ask, but the need to know was about to drive him mad, "Ramon, how is--?"

Ramon turned his head, finally meeting their stares. He opened his mouth to answer, but, at that same instant, the door opened and Duvall and the doctor stepped out of Siroc's room. The Captain saw the three faces, anxious and drawn with worry, waiting on the other side. He smiled a bit and nodded.

The doctor was pulling on his hat, rattling off instructions to the Captain. "…to make sure he sleeps, and you'll need to watch for signs of infection. He'll have a bit of a fever tonight, so keep an eye on him and use cold cloths. If he isn't doing better in the morning, fetch me, but I think he'll be just fine."

D'Artagnan asked for everyone, "Siroc's all right?"

The doctor nodded, "Yes, see for---"

Duvall and the doctor were nearly bowled over by Ramon, D'Artagnan, and Jacqueline as they plowed past them in their haste to get into the bedroom. Ramon paused only enough to politely catch and return the hat that they'd knocked right off the doctor's head in their haste. "---yourselves," the doctor finished. Duvall smiled apologetically. "Yes, well, I can see he's in very good hands. I'll look in on him tomorrow."

"Thank you, Doctor. Good evening."

"Good evening, Captain."

Duvall saw the medic to the door, then returned to the laboratory. D'Artagnan, Ramon, and Jacqueline had already defied the doctors order and were pulling up the few stools and one chair so that each one could take turns talking the injured man's ear off. Siroc was trying groggily to stay awake long enough to listen.

Duvall watched the scene for a minute, and then retreated for his office. He'd do his share of checking on the inventor over the next few days.

_I don't need scientists, I need Musketeers._

The Captain was glad to admit having been wrong about that…

**Epilogue**

It was too quiet.

Duvall quietly passed the trio still camped outside the laboratory door, trying not to wake D'Artagnan, Ramon, and Jacque now that they'd finally succumbed to sleep. They had been reluctant to return to their own quarters, wanted to be on hand if their friend needed anything. It would appear the Captain wasn't the only one who hadn't quite gotten over what had almost happened that day. Duvall couldn't point fingers when he'd come to the laboratory to be a bit of a mother hen himself.

Tip-toeing past the trio, he slipped into the laboratory and, quietly as possible checked on the inventor. The younger man's forehead felt cooler to the touch now. That was good, it meant the fever that the doctor worried about was finally abating. But, for pity's sake, there was a piece of parchment and a quill already half-hidden among Siroc's blankets. The inventor's neat writing and sketches covered the paper. How had he managed to sneak that past the entire corps of Musketeers…especially the trio outside the door, who were under orders to be 'watching like a hawk' to make sure he did nothing at all besides sleep.

When Duvall picked up the paper, Siroc's eyes opened at once. "Wha---" Disoriented for a moment, he gazed blearily at the source of the disturbance. "Captain--?"

"Sorry. It's late, you should be sleeping."

Still a bit groggy, Siroc stared at him in confusion, tried to sit up, and winced at the twinge in his shoulder. That brought the memory of the day's events back in a rush.

"What is this?" Duvall squinted at the drawings on the parchment. He supposed you had to be a scientist-inventor to make sense of the notations Siroc had made.

"Just had an idea for a shirt that can catch pistol shots…" Siroc tried to unsuccessfully find a comfortable position on the cot. "Would have come in handy today."

"That sounds like a worthwhile invention…" The Captain approved. "…but it can wait another few days.

Siroc was still trying to piece together snippets of memory from the past day. "Jacque said he and D'Artagnan caught the men responsible?" He remembered telling Jacque to go after the thieves, and Jacque's refusal. Siroc had hoped that, if someone did take the fake Stone of Vesuvio, following them would lead to the rest of the conspirators…especially to the one with the medallion who had escaped five years ago.

Duvall nodded. "Red hands and all."

"Who?"

The Captain sobered. "Let's just say…Mazarin showed up at a very opportune moment."

This wasn't entirely a shock to the inventor. He had known there was something familiar about the voice of the thieves' leader five years ago. If the man with the medallion hadn't been speaking Latin and had his words distorted by that mask---and if Siroc hadn't been concentrating on trying to get out of the doomed wagon at the time---he might have put it together sooner. But, what could he have done about it? Without actually seeing Mazarin's face that night, he never could have proved the Cardinal was involved. They would have to catch the Cardinal in the act of conspiracy with _irrefutable_ proof if they were going to take him down. "Red-handed?"

"Unfortunately, no." The younger man's disappointment was obvious, and Duvall knew how he felt. "Very clever…making a fake pyramid for them to 'steal'."

"I thought it was best to have something to bargain with when they showed up, and I couldn't risk the real Stone of Vesuvio. I constructed a fake out of crushed glass and sugar and my epoxy…with a couple of surprises for them. We said before that intelligence clearly wasn't in their job descriptions…still, I can't believe they expected me to be traipsing around the forest with the real pyramid in my pocket for anyone to steal." He rolled his eyes at bit at the notion. "The real stone--?"

"Still safely locked away," Duvall promised.

Siroc relaxed a bit hearing that. "Good." His eyes were trying to drift shut again, but he was fighting sleep. Duvall knew his cue to go.

"You are ordered---again---to rest. Mimou and Adam are coming to visit me next month, and Adam is specifically looking forward to 'helping Monsieur Siroc with his magic force'. You can explain to me what that means later." Duvall smiled at the surprise on Siroc's face. The inventor was still taken aback by the boy's attachment to him. "It would seem you have an apprentice after all, Master Siroc, so I won't have you disappointing my nephew by not healing before his visit due to the lack of sense to sleep when you need to."

To make his point, Duvall placed every piece of parchment and every quill he could find on top of the highest shelf Siroc had, hopefully out of his reach with that bad shoulder of his. If that didn't work, he'd lock them in his desk drawer. He'd warn the others later that anyone who returned the items before the inventor was sufficiently recovered would muck out the stables every day for the next six months. He returned to the bunk long enough to give the inventor's good shoulder a squeeze. "We'll talk again tomorrow."

Siroc nodded, but didn't open his eyes. Duvall let him be. As quietly as possible, he slipped out of the room and closed the door behind him.

It was not surprising that the conversation had not gone unnoticed. Jacqueline was standing just outside the door now, awakened by the sound of voices within the room. Having only been half-asleep she had still automatically got up at the noise to see if the inventor needed something. She hadn't wanted to intrude on the captain's conversation with him. "Captain? Is everything all right?"

Duvall nodded. "You should be asleep as well."

"I can't sleep. Ironic, isn't it? No late night explosions, no mysterious fogs or vapors, no purple foam or bangs or thumps…and the only one getting any sleep is Siroc."

Duvall chuckled at bit at that. He'd noticed that as well. It was strange how you could become used to such things.

Since she had the chance at a private word, Jacqueline had something she wanted to ask the question. "Sir…I was wondering. D'Artagnan told me what happened five years ago with that pyramid. You said you didn't need scientists---"

"And you want to know what changed my mind?" Duvall asked.

She nodded.

**_Paris, the Court of the King, Five Years Earlier_**

The Captain had to do some fast-talking.

Still, even the Captain could cringe under the withering stare of the Queen when she was feeling put out. "…and so, you see, Your Majesty, since we did not know who among the court was part of the conspiracy, we thought it was best to---set a trap for them, draw them out into the open. I take responsibility for _our_ decision to keep our intentions secret…temporarily, of course. We feared that if the conspirators found out the Musketeers were privy to their plans, they would simply slip away and we would have lost a valuable opportunity to catch the entire membership…"

"Red handed?" D'Artagnan smirked, and even Ramon and the inventor were hiding grins. Duvall gave them a look that clearly said he had a line of unpleasant chores in mind, tasks would wipe those smirks off their faces in short order, for their disobedience of direct orders.

"…in the act of treason. Rest assured, it was always our intention to notify you, Your Highness, and alert your palace guard…"

Louis was scratching his head. "So, this 'Stone of Vesuvio' was hidden in my birthday gift? My birthday gift was a fake?" He crossed his arms, slumped back in his throne and pouted.

Duvall sighed, "Yes, Your Highness."

Mazarin spoke up, "Where is the Stone of Vesuvio now?"

Only his Musketeers and Siroc could detect the Captain's hesitation before he answered: "Destroyed, unfortunately. Our thieves made the poor decision to leave it sitting on a wagon that they sent to the bottom of the ravine."

D'Artagnan, Ramon, and Siroc knew the truth. The pyramid—the 'Stone of Vesuvio' as the elusive leader of the conspirators had called it---was currently resting in Duvall's pocket, where it had been since his men presented it to him that morning when they'd given their accounts of everything from how D'Artagnan had picked the lock on the Captain's desk to take it up to their idea for pretending that the stone had been lost at the bottom of the ravine.

Moncrief interjected, "Your Majesty, this sort of behavior is another example of why you should allow the Cardinal's guards to take responsibility for your protection…"

The Queen redirected her fuming glare towards the Cardinal. "What sort of 'behavior' do you find objectionable? Discovering a conspiracy hiding under your very nose? Or delivering the conspirators to me without the loss of a single royal guard or Musketeer?"

"But, to withhold such information----" Mazarin agreed. "---and, respectfully, I must point out that they did lose the stone _and_ let one conspirator slip past them."

"For now," D'Artagnan's tone was deceptively mild. Mazarin backed down only when the Musketeer pointedly stared at the gloves hiding the Cardinal's fingers, raised an eyebrow, and added: "He won't be difficult to find with red fingers." Mazarin folded his hands in his lap and said nothing else.

The Queen drummed her fingers on the armrest of her throne. "It's true I cannot say I appreciate being kept in the dark, Captain Duvall…nevertheless, I am grateful to you and your Musketeers for bringing these conspirators to justice. However, the next time you have such a foolhardy notion, you will keep me informed," she ordered.

"Yes, Your Majesty."

Louis sat on his throne, arms crossed, the image of childish petulance. "Yes, but what about my birthday gift? I have nothing left but an empty shell and…" He held up his hands, displaying fingers tinted red, "What's to be done about this? It won't come off! And it's all over everything!"

"Ah, yes, the mess. I have already found three volunteers to clean up every last smudge and smear." Duvall gave the trio standing behind him a grin that was pure evil. D'Artagnan, Ramon, and Siroc obediently cringed.

"That powder _will_ wash off, right?" D'Artagnan quietly asked the inventor.

"Eventually."

Ramon didn't like the sound of that. "How many washes is 'eventually'?" He risked a glimpse at Siroc, who had been pursing his lips and scrunching his face repeatedly to the point that it was about to drive Ramon and D'Artagnan both quite mad. God help them if the Queen thought one of them was making faces at her. "_What_ are you doing!"

"My teeth itch," Siroc complained. In fact, they had been itching since he'd removed the wooden teeth that morning. The upside to the discomfort was that he'd deduced it was an allergic reaction to the epoxy and was already well into calculations on how to remix the epoxy so that it could comfortably and firmly hold false teeth in place without making one's gums itch to distraction.

The Queen was addressing him. Siroc forgot about itchy teeth and epoxy at once. "As for you," she was studying the young man. "You may not be Monsieur Vieaux, but you were his apprentice. That carries weight in this court…and you managed to keep Louis awake for most of his science lesson. We are still in need of a tutor. If you wish it, the position is yours."

Stunned, Siroc couldn't find his voice, for once couldn't get his mind to even supply the word he wanted. Did he want the position? A position that offered unfettered use of the finest laboratory in France? A more ludicrous question had never been asked. He was prepared to jump at the opportunity, even if it meant having to cope with Mazarin's skulkings and occasional snores from his student.

Duvall spoke up first. "I'm sure Siroc is humbled and honored by your offer, Your Highness. It would be the greatest privilege a scientist could have…however, Siroc has come all this way from Guierre in the hopes of serving the royal family as one of the Musketeers…"

This was news to Siroc, but he said nothing to contradict the Captain. Beside the inventor, D'Artagnan and Ramon appeared equally baffled.

"…and I believe you'll find him quite invaluable in that capacity. With your permission, naturally?"

The Queen looked set to insist. Duvall and his men—Siroc included---waited tensely, until she finally nodded. "You've saved my life and the life of my son. If it is truly your wish to join the Musketeers, then that will be your reward."

Duvall, D'Artagnan, and Ramon waited for Siroc's answer. "It is my wish, Your Majesty."

Siroc had asked no questions, and for that Duvall was grateful. The Captain had been fully aware that he'd declined the boy's most heartfelt wish, a job for which he was eminently suited, without the courtesy of even consulting Siroc first. In fact, the boy had said nothing at all about the matter after they left the palace. He had gone to collect his belongings, with Ramon and D'Artagnan's help, with nary a word on the subject.

It was later that day before the topic was broached. Duvall had been in his office at the barracks when a loud _crash_ from the direction of the quarters he'd assigned to Siroc made him jump. Upon investigating, he found the trio had quickly set up a laboratory for the inventor, albeit nowhere near as grand as the facilities at the palace. When Duvall walked into the laboratory, the three of them were in the process of dousing a small fire on the worktable.

Seeing the Captain, D'Artagnan hurriedly explained, "Just a little accident, sir. Nothing we can't handle."

"Hmm." Duvall wondered what he'd gotten himself into bringing the inventor into the barracks. He hoped such 'accidents' weren't going to become a routine. "Gentlemen, may I have a word with Siroc?"

D'Artagnan and Ramon obliged, heading back to the river to retrieve what was left of Siroc's crates…what hadn't been stolen while his belongings were left unattended by the Seine in the name of saving the royal family. Duvall looked around for a chair, but found only a stool. Apparently, comfortable seating wasn't one of the inventor's priorities. _A couple more decades of age would change the boy's opinion about the value of a good, soft chair…_

Siroc found another stool and took a seat opposite the captain, waiting for the older man to speak. He had donned the gray uniform coat of a Musketeer as if it were the most natural thing in the world for a scientist to be wearing. If Siroc was unhappy about the turn of events, it didn't show.

"Siroc---I spoke out of turn this morning. I know—D'Artagnan and Ramon have told me---that when you came to Paris, it was with the hopes of becoming a royal scientist or tutor. It wasn't my right to decline the job for you. So, first, I wished to thank you for trusting me when I answered for you this morning. Second, you deserve an explanation. If you still want the position at the palace after you hear what I have to say, I'll arrange it."

The inventor nodded, but said nothing. It sounded reasonable to him.

"Ramon came to me yesterday and asked if there might be a place for you with us. I told him no, that I needed Musketeers and not scientists to protect the royal family. I didn't know you, and if I was more suspicious, more cautious, than I should have been, it's because suspicion and caution have allowed me to protect the royal family for a very long time. However, as it turns out, my decision about you was rather short-sighted. If you hadn't helped us, despite my effort to keep you from doing so, we wouldn't have known about the conspiracy, and it's quite probable that the royal family would be dead now." Duvall's blood ran cold at the idea. "Somewhere, out there---possibly right there among the Prince's trusted inner circle---is a conspirator who is still planning to kill the royal family…or to try at least.

"If he were planning to try to overthrow the King with swords and pistols, I could protect him. But this conspirator is planning his attacks with science and magic and weapons I don't understand. I need someone I know I can trust---someone who does understand the weapons we'll be fighting, or who can at least figure them out. So, as I said, I was wrong. It would seem I do need a scientist."

Duvall pulled the Stone of Vesuvio, which D'Artagnan and Ramon had given him for safekeeping, onto the worktable. "You can begin by studying this. Since this pyramid has officially been 'destroyed', you'll have as long as you need to examine it…if you'll stay."

Siroc stared at the stone. _The Lord has a much grander scheme for your life to bless you with the mind he's given you, grander than puttering in an old man's laboratory and mending the roofs and carriages of Guierre. It's time that you discovered that scheme,_ his mentor had told him years ago. Was this the scheme Monsieur Vieaux had meant?

"A Musketeer…" Siroc hadn't intended to say that aloud.

Duvall corrected, "An inventor-Musketeer."

Siroc grinned. The Captain took that as a 'yes'.

"Good." As he stood, Duvall pointed to the pyramid. "You, D'Artagnan, Ramon, and I are the only four people in the world who know that thing still exists. Let's keep it that way. And, whatever you do---keep that thing safe."

"I will, sir," the inventor promised.

Glad to have the matter resolved, the Captain started for the door.

"Captain?" Siroc called.

Duvall paused.

"Thank you," the inventor added.

Duvall smiled. "Welcome to the group, Siroc."

**THE END**


End file.
